Convicted
by Transwarp
Summary: The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol is tried in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of Chosin. Fourth in a series: order of stories 'Commissioning', 'Liaison', 'Command', then 'Convicted' .
1. Chapter 1

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol is convicted and sentenced by an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**ONE  
Starbase Seven**_**,**_**Lalande III, 8 Mar 2159**

"I haven't had breakfast yet," Doctor Emerson said, fixing the young Starfleet Lieutenant with his most intimidating glare. It was a look once guaranteed to strike terror into the hearts of his students, back in the days when he was Chairman of Rutgers' College of Xenoanthropology.

Rather than wilting under the fierce scowl, Lieutenant Rasmussen just shrugged. "The mess deck's been serving for two hours, sir."

"I was _sleeping_," Doctor Emerson grumbled. "On a too-hard mattress on a too-narrow bunk in a too-small, too-cold room. And then _you_ come along and wake me for a too-early meeting. I'm not even afforded the opportunity for breakfast. It's inhuman."

"Sorry, sir. Admiral Gardner's orders." Lieutenant Rasmussen seemed anything but sorry, and Doctor Emerson's irritation deepened.

It was his own damn fault, really. He should have stayed at Rutgers, where he was a recognized authority on Andorian culture, instead of taking a position as a mid-level official within the Foreign Ministry's Andorian Bureau. The opportunity to collect civil service pay on top of his generous University pension had been a little too attractive, and now he was paying the price for his greed.

It was supposed to have been a routine government job: Attend a few meetings, write a few position papers, review proposed treaties from a cultural perspective. Then the war came, and everything changed. Gone were the easy hours and the casual environment. The protocols and agreements required for Andoria to effectively fight alongside Human, Vulcan, and Tellarite military forces did not exist, and had to be quickly and laboriously negotiated. Suddenly the quality and timeliness of his work actually mattered.

He didn't like the pressure. Not at all.

"Here we are, sir," Rasmussen said, ushering him into a conference room. Like everything else on Starbase Seven, the room was rough and unfinished. The table appeared to be a slab of hull plating welded to four I-beams. The chairs were the stackable variety, made of cheap plastic in a style that would not have been out of place on a patio or around a swimming pool. They also looked intensely uncomfortable.

But then, what else was new? There was certainly nothing comfortable about the Vulcan courier vessel that had brought him and the other members of Admiral Gardner's contingent the ten light years from Earth to Lalande III. And he was most assuredly NOT comfortable about being in a star system where a Romulan attack was imminent.

Admiral Gardner was already in the room, speaking in hushed tones with a Starfleet Captain that Emerson did not recognize. Emerson took a quick look around and determined he was the last of the seven-man contingent from Earth to arrive in the conference room. As near as he could tell, the only person still missing was Commander T'Pol, the subject of the meeting.

If there were a positive side to his situation, it was the stories he would be able to tell his former colleagues back at Rutgers; stories of meeting _Chosin's_ famous Captain. There was no denying Commander T'Pol's popularity with the public at large--for the first two years of the war, _Chosin's_ successes were one of the few bright spots in an otherwise dismal picture. Emerson, a natural cynic, had long believed the reports to be exaggerations, embellished by Starfleet in order to improve public morale.

He had only recently been forced to revise that belief. In preparation for today's meeting he'd been given a long list of documents to review, most of them classified. The stories of _Chosin's_ exploits in the popular press paled by comparison to the actual details given in the confidential reports.

In fact, many of those documents had chilled him to the bone. He had known in a vague way that the Romulans were a serious threat, but not until reading through the official action reports had he realized just how close the Coalition had come to complete collapse and total defeat. On more than one occasion.

Difficult as it was to believe, it appeared to Emerson that T'Pol might have actually earned every accolade the press had heaped upon her.

Emerson had just settled into his chair for what he anticipated would be a long and boring meeting when Commander T'Pol entered the room with Commander Tucker at her side. He recognized them both immediately, of course, and watched with great interest as they crossed the room to exchange a few quiet words with Admiral Gardner. Commander T'Pol was physically smaller than his mental image had led him to expect, but she still had a commanding presence about her.

She was also rather pretty, in a subdued sort of way. Not his type, though he could see how Commander Tucker might be attracted to her. Unlike many of his fellow humans, Emerson was open-minded regarding interspecies relationships, although the point of a sexual relationship with a coldly logical Vulcan escaped him. A hot-blooded Andorian female, now... _that_ would be something. Something exciting. Exotic. He had often fantasized about such a coupling...

Lieutenant Rasmussen's voice brought him back to the present. "If everyone would please be seated, we're ready to get started."

Commander T'Pol and Commander Tucker took seats across from Emerson, and he was struck by the differences in their expressions. Commander T'Pol appeared completely calm and collected, while her husband was positively grim. But who could blame him? His wife was under threat of deportation to Andoria, to face trial for her recent actions in the Teneebian sector. It had to be terribly upsetting.

Admiral Gardner waited until everyone was settled around the table, then gave his aide a nod. "Lieutenant Rasmussen, why don't you handle the introductions?"

"Yes sir." Rasmussen turned and addressed the entire table, speaking loudly enough for all to hear. He introduced himself first, "I'm Lieutenant Colton Rasmussen, Admiral Gardner's aide-de-camp," then he went around the table naming everyone in turn, starting with the Admiral: "Starfleet Commandant, Admiral Gardner. Starfleet Assistant JAG for Criminal Law, Captain Carl Langley. Commanding Officer of Starbase Seven, Captain Jennifer Rocha. Undersecretary to the Minister of Justice, Marilyn Vaughan. Director of Internal Affairs for the Ministry of Space, Jeremy Stark. Chief Analyst for the Andorian Bureau of the Foreign Ministry, Doctor Reuben Emerson." Emerson gave a slight nod as his name and title were announced.

Rasmussen continued, "Staff Legal Assistant for the Vulcan Embassy on Earth, Subcommander Kolna. And I'm sure everyone here knows Commander T'Pol, Captain of USS _Chosin_, and Commander Tucker, _Chosin's_ Chief Engineer."

Emerson was amused to see Commander Tucker's eyes widening at the number of high-level functionaries in the room. "There's a lot of horsepower here," Tucker remarked, after the introductions were complete.

"Damn right," Gardner agreed. "I asked for the best. Now let's get to work."

He leaned forward, arms on the table, and glanced around the room before speaking. "The President has asked me for my recommendation on how to respond to the extradition request. I've brought you all here to help me evaluate various courses of action and select the best one. I'd like to start by discussing the merits of this request. Do we have grounds to refuse extradition under international law or the terms of our treaties?"

Tucker looked like he was going to speak, but stopped at a glance from T'Pol.

Undersecretary Vaughan actually did speak. "I would like to hear exactly what crimes the Andorians are alleging Commander T'Pol has committed," she said.

"Yeah, I'd kind of like to hear that myself," Tucker added, scowling.

Captain Langley, the Assistant JAG, answered. "They claim that Commander T'Pol is complicit in the murder of thirty-four Andorian civilians, in that she deliberately disregarded orders to safeguard the Andorian freighter _Ketalan_. They claim that the destruction of _Ketalan_ and the deaths of her crew were a direct consequence of her hatred for Andorians."

"So she is being charged with failure to obey a lawful order, and with... with what? Manslaughter?" Undersecretary Vaughan asked.

Captain Langley shook his head. "No ma'am. Not Manslaughter. That would imply Commander T'Pol was negligent. They are alleging criminal intent--that she knowingly acted to cause the deaths of _Ketalan's_ crew. The charge is murder."

"That is the most ridiculous--" Tucker began with vehemence. He immediately subsided when T'Pol placed a hand on his arm. Her expression never once lost its calm placidity.

The Undersecretary ignored Tucker's outburst and asked another question, "Just murder? No degree? And what punishment does she face?"

"Andorian law recognizes various flavors of murder, depending on who is killed and how, so that isn't a simple question to answer. The precise charges are not listed in the extradition request but they _had_ to tell us the maximum penalties; it's in the extradition treaty. Commander T'Pol could receive up to life in prison, but she faces no capital charges."

"The incident took place in international space," Undersecretary Vaughan pointed out. "Perhaps we can claim Andoria has no jurisdiction?"

Langley shook his head. "_Ketalan_ was operating under an Andorian flag, which gives Andorian law jurisdiction over anything that happens on or to the ship. Also, our Status of Forces Agreement with Andoria provides for legal redress of crimes committed against Andorian interests by United Earth forces, and vice versa. They clearly have jurisdiction."

"Captain Langley, I don't need all the reasons why the Andorians _can_ extradite Commander T'Pol. I need one good reason why they _can't,_" Admiral Gardner said.

"Sorry, Admiral. There are no sufficient legal grounds to deny extradition."

"How about on the grounds that no crime was committed?" Tucker snarled. "I know for a fact T'Pol had no criminal intent, and she sure as hell doesn't hate Andorians! She did what she had to do to defeat four Foxtrot-class warbirds. Four! We were outnumbered and outgunned and didn't have a lot of options. The fact that we weren't destroyed along with _Ketalan_ is a tribute to her skill. For Chancellor Shalin to come along after the fact with these wild accusations is disgusting."

Gardner looked at Langley. "How about it, JAG? If we demonstrate lack of intent, can we shoot down the murder charge?"

Captain Langley shook his head. "There's still the failure to obey a lawful order. Even without criminal intent, the Chancellor could continue pushing for extradition."

Director Stark from the Ministry of Space cleared his throat. "Correct me if I'm wrong--I never served in Starfleet, or any other branch of the armed forces--but it seems to me that failure to obey an order is an internal matter between Commander T'Pol and Starfleet headquarters."

"You are correct, sir. I should have been more precise. The Andorians are not charging Commander T'Pol directly with failure to obey. They will use it to show criminal intent. Or, at the very least, gross negligence."

Director Stark rubbed the back of his neck as he considered his next question. "I need to know why this particular order was disobeyed, and what Starfleet intends to do about it." He gave Commander T'Pol a questioning look. "Commander, what _were_ your orders?"

"I was directed by Commander, Second Fleet to take _Chosin_ into the Teneebian sector. Once there, I was to rendezvous with USS _Galloway_ and the freighter _Ketalan_, escort _Ketalan_ to Teneebia, then find and destroy two Romulan warships that had been detected entering the sector." It was the first time Commander T'Pol had spoken, and Emerson was struck by the quality of her voice. Low and throaty, with a precise and measured cadence. Very pleasant on the ear, actually.

"Two? I thought there were four warships," Director Stark said.

"At the time, we believed there were only two," T'Pol said. "Had he known otherwise, I am sure Admiral Chu would have sent more ships."

"And why did you choose to disregard your orders?" At Director Stark's question, Tucker shifted in his seat, but held his tongue. Again. Emerson could only wonder how long his restraint would hold.

"The Romulans were waiting near the rendezvous point," T'Pol answered. "They launched simultaneous attacks on _Ketalan_ and _Galloway_. I could only go to the aid of one vessel, and I reasoned that a warship with an experienced crew was more vital to the war effort than a small civilian freighter. I went to _Galloway's_ aid."

"I see. Did you make any attempt to advise Starfleet of your decision?"

Tucker rolled his eyes, clearly disgusted by the question. "She couldn't, sir. The Rommies destroy our subspace relays almost as fast as we can lay them. There are currently NO relays in the Teneebian sector. We were on our own."

T'Pol expanded on Tucker's explanation, "There was no way I could request guidance from higher headquarters. I had to make a choice, and I chose to save _Galloway_. It was a... difficult decision for me."

"I'm sure it was," Director Stark said smoothly. "Tell me, Commander. If it had been a Vulcan freighter, what would you have done?"

"The same." Her tone was even, her face impassive, but it seemed to Emerson that there was a dangerous glint in her eyes.

"And when did you finally realize that you had made a mistake?" Director Stark asked.

Instead of answering, T'Pol looked at Admiral Gardner. "Admiral, if I had been able to inform you of the situation, what would your orders have been?"

Gardner did not hesitate. "I would have ordered you to _Galloway's_ aid."

T'Pol was silent for a long moment, then she nodded. "Thank you, Admiral." She turned back to Director Stark. "The answer to your question, Director, is 'never'. My decision was tactically sound and logically based. It has also been validated by my chain of command."

Director Stark's next question was for Admiral Gardner. "So Starfleet has no issues with Commander T'Pol's conduct during this mission?"

"No, Director," Gardner replied. "It is Starfleet's position that Commander T'Pol's performance was exemplary in all respects. Once again--as she has done many times before--she's engaged and defeated a numerically superior Romulan force. It is Starfleet's position that the Andorian Chancellor's charges are baseless and without merit. It is Starfleet's position that their request for extradition should be summarily rejected. Unfortunately, it is not my decision to make. I can only provide a recommendation to the President. He will decide." He paused to collect his thoughts before continuing, "So I need a recommendation, and I need good, solid reasons supporting it."

Director Stark gave Admiral Gardner a disbelieving look. "There can only be one recommendation. We must preserve the coalition. It would be an unmitigated disaster for Andoria to withdraw military support from the war effort. We cannot allow that to happen. Commander T'Pol _must_ stand trial."

Emerson watched with fascination as Tucker's hands balled into fists. He was clearly using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep himself from surging across the table and pummeling the Director of Internal Affairs into a bloody pulp. _And I thought this meeting was going to be boring_.

Admiral Gardner was also not amused. "I cannot believe you are so willing to succumb to blackmail," he said to Director Stark, "Chancellor Shalin's prejudices regarding Vulcans are well known. His reasons for bringing these trumped-up charges are quite transparent."

"And I cannot believe you are so willing to defend Commander T'Pol's reckless disregard for civilian lives," Stark shot back. "Starfleet is supposed to be _protecting_ us. She threw a civilian freighter to the wolves in order to save a comrade. Thirty-seven lives were lost as a direct result of her actions. _Civilian_ lives. She must be held accountable."

The room went deathly quiet. Emerson glanced at Tucker and was surprised to see his eyes closed, a relaxed expression on his face. Commander T'Pol was equally composed, her gaze turned toward her human husband. He had expected a more visceral reaction from them in the face of Stark's attack. _Some of T'Pol's Vulcan reserve seems to have rubbed off on him_, Emerson mused.

Admiral Gardner broke the strained silence. "Commander T'Pol _is_ being held accountable, Director. As soon as _Chosin_ and _Galloway_ were in comm range, all pertinent logs and data files were transmitted to Starfleet. My staff has examined them in detail and passed their recommendations on to me. I have personally read both Commander T'Pol's and Commander Mancusa's after-action reports. As a result of my review, I am taking certain measures directed at Commander T'Pol and _Chosin_."

"And what are those measures?" Stark asked.

Admiral Gardner favored Director Stark with an innocent smile. "I am awarding Commander T'Pol the Star Cross with second palm, and Lieutenant Commander Mancusa the Star Cross. I am awarding _Chosin_ and _Galloway_ the Starfleet Unit Citation. That is _Chosin's_ FIFTH such citation. I have also approved all of Commander T'Pol and Commander Mancusa's award requests for their crew. So you can see Commander T'Pol is indeed being held to account for her actions, and is receiving--in full measure--what she deserves."

"You have left me no choice," Stark said in a frigid tone. "Since Starfleet condones her decision to allow civilians to die, I must advise the Minister of Space to overturn your actions and take more appropriate measures."

"Do what you will, Director. We've already wasted too much time on this. We need to get back to the issue at hand, namely the extradition requests."

"May I speak?"

All eyes turned to Commander Tucker as he waited patiently for an answer to his request.

"Yes," Admiral Gardner said. "Please do."

Tucker nodded. "You all know that Commander T'Pol is Vulcan and fully committed to the philosophy of Surak, but you may not understand what that means. She has been raised to revere life. Not just sentient life, but _all_ life. She will not eat meat, because to do so means a living creature had to die." He glanced around the room, measuring the impact of his words.

"Under her command _Chosin_ has destroyed forty-four Romulan warships. We can't say how many Romulan deaths that represents, but it's probably in the thousands. Each and every one of those ships weighs heavily on her soul. I _know._ I help her meditate to suppress the pain, and that's just for the enemy, for a race of beings whose appearance we don't even know. Try to imagine the pain she feels when she loses one of her own. One of her crew, who she's responsible for. One she's trained and worked with on a daily basis. Well, she's lost more than one. She's lost twenty-nine. _Twenty-nine_. You can't begin to understand how much it hurts her. How much... how much grief and heartache..." There was a catch in his voice, and he paused to take a steadying breath.

"She knows them ALL. She remembers them ALL. She could tell you their names right now. All twenty-nine. You think Vulcans have no emotions? They have them, and they're strong. Stronger than ours. They just don't display them. They work very hard to keep them contained, but it's hard for them... It's hard for her. But she stays on the job. She goes back out every time, and kills more Romulans and loses more crew, and loses another piece of her soul, because it's her _duty_. Because... because she knows someone else would have to do it if she didn't, and she wouldn't wish this job on her worst enemy. She _hates_ this job. She loves her crew--loves them like family--but she hates the job. She hates it because of the soul-destroying things she's forced to do. Because of the life-and-death decisions--the _impossible_ decisions--she has to make. Most of you would crack under the strain. You couldn't take the pressure. Day in and day out for weeks at a time with no end in sight..."

Tucker was now looking directly at Director Stark as he spoke, fire in his eyes, voice tight with barely contained emotion, "There were fifty-one souls on _Galloway_ that day, compared to thirty-seven on _Ketalan_. She knew with certainty that all fifty-one on _Galloway_ would die without our help. We know from experience that Romulans take no prisoners and leave no combatants alive. We did NOT know that Romulans have the same policy for non-combatants. She made the best choice she could have made with the information available to her, and she felt the death of the _Ketalan's_ crew like a dagger through her heart. I'm talking pain--real, _physical_ pain. Don't you dare imply she deliberately allowed _Ketalan's_ crew to die just to save her friends. She would let ME die before she would dishonor herself like that. Don't you dare accuse her of reckless disregard for civilian lives. Don't you _dare_."

Tucker slumped back in his chair, as if physically spent. The intensity drained from his face, replaced by a look of tired resignation. "Anyway," he said, almost as if he were talking to himself, "I just thought you might want to know a little something about my wife before you ship her off to an Andorian prison."

A stunned silence fell over the room, and Emerson glanced at Commander T'Pol. He was immediately captivated by the expression on her face as she gazed at her husband. Her features had softened and her eyes seemed to gleam.

Emerson was fifty-seven, and a confirmed bachelor. He had never been married and thought himself content to remain so. He had never harbored the slightest desire for a permanent relationship with anyone. But... but at that moment, he could not help but wonder what it would be like--what it would _feel_ like--to have a woman look at him the way T'Pol was looking at Tucker. To have that pride and tenderness and approval and acceptance, and... and things he wasn't even sure there were words for, directed at _him_.

Admiral Gardner finally spoke, releasing Emerson from the spell that had seized him. "I want to be quite clear so there is no misunderstanding: The sole purpose of this meeting is to find a way to keep Commander T'Pol _out_ of an Andorian prison. Now, the only thing stopping the President from telling Chancellor Shalin to pound sand is his threat to withdraw Andorian military support. Is this an actual threat? Is he bluffing, or would he really do it? Doctor Emerson, you're an authority on Andorian politics. What is your opinion?"

"Umm... yes... ah..." Gardner's question caught Emerson unprepared, and he stammered to buy some time while collecting his thoughts. "Yes. Well, I can't say whether Shalin is bluffing, but I can say with certainty that it would be political suicide for him to take such an action. Chancellor Shalin's intense dislike for all things Vulcan is well documented, as are the reasons for it. He's lost several close family members to the Vulcans, and he's used that to help define his political persona."

He had the whole rooms undivided attention now, and he basked in the limelight while he continued his analysis, "Three years ago, extreme anti-Vulcan prejudice was a political asset and he was easily elected to the Chancellorship. Since the war, things have changed. Andorians and Vulcans are fighting and dying side-by-side against a common enemy. Many Andorians believe--for the first time--that the long conflict with Vulcan can finally be resolved. What was once an asset has become a liability, and a majority in Parliament support the Coalition of Planets and the war, if only tentatively. If Shalin makes good on his threat and orders the Imperial Guard to stand down, Parliament will most certainly remove him from office. His successor's first act will be to resume support of the war."

"So you believe he is bluffing?" Gardner asked.

"Yes, Admiral. I do. Shalin has worked very hard to get where he is. He will not throw it away on a personal vendetta."

"I do not concur." The voice of dissent belonged to Subcommander Kolna, the Vulcan Legal Assistant. Emerson frowned at the contradiction.

"Please explain," Gardner said.

"Certainly. Vulcan has had dealings with Chancellor Shalin many times in the past. His hatred of Vulcans is virulent and unreasoning. It is the opinion of the Vulcan Embassy that he would stop at nothing to avenge the death of his son."

"You really think Shalin would throw away his Chancellorship, undermine Andoria's influence in the Coalition, and risk military defeat at the hands of the Romulans just to satisfy a personal vendetta?" Gardner could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

"I do." Kolna affirmed.

"I find that very difficult to believe."

"Perhaps that is because you do not possess Vulcan's experience with Andorian intransigence."

"Or perhaps your conclusion is influenced by some prejudice of your own?" Gardner suggested.

"Vulcans do not have prejudices."

Emerson settled back in his chair. This was obviously going to be a VERY long meeting.

#####

_**Enterprise**_**, en-route to Eta Corvi, 8 Mar 2159**

Hoshi smiled as she scrolled down the page of insectoid text. Xindi insectoid was one of the most difficult alphabets she had ever encountered. Based on a complex system of contextual rules and modifying symbols, each character could represent an entire phrase or a single phonetic sound. The good news was she seemed to have mastered their system. The bad news? Insectoid literature was _appallingly_ bad. This particular work--by one of the insectoids most renowned authors--was an interminable ode to the egg.

She felt a little guilty at indulging her linguistic hobby when so much ship's business remained on her plate, but she reasoned it was important to exercise her talents. The war would not last forever, and someday (IF she survived) she would be able to resume her life's work. She might even remain in Starfleet, although that would require careful consideration. In the eight years since Captain Archer had talked her onto _Enterprise_, four of them--fully HALF--had been at a state of war.

"Come in," Hoshi called at the sound of the door chime. A pleased smile spread across her face when Malcolm entered her room.

"You've got to hear this, Malcolm," she said, taking the opportunity to show-off her talents. "This is what passes for great literature in insectoid circles: Behold, the egg is round. Round as a sphere. Round as the fruit of the tree. Remain round, oh egg. Your roundness touches our minds and brings us to..." her voice trailed off as she noticed Malcolm's grim expression.

"Malcolm?"

Wordlessly, he extended a pad. She took it, gripped by a feeling of dread. "Oh, no." she said, as she read through the message. "No. Not this..."

She looked up from the pad, her eyes full of pain. Malcolm had seated himself on her bunk, avoiding her gaze.

"The message just came in," he said. "Jon's informing the Admiral now."

"They can't do this. They won't. Starfleet would never allow T'Pol to be extradited to Andoria... would they?"

Malcolm laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "It's not up to Starfleet. The decision will be made by politicians back on Earth."

Hoshi blanched. She well knew how self-righteous, self-serving, and thoughtless most politicians could be. Even on those rare occasions when they did something right, it was usually by accident. "Is there anything we can do?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Admiral Gardner is preparing Starfleet's recommendation for the President. After that, we can only wait."

"It's not fair," Hoshi said bitterly, "After all they've been through, and now _this_. It's like the universe is conspiring against them."

"It does seem that way, sometimes," Malcolm said.

"Thank you for letting me know."

Malcolm nodded, subdued. She had the distinct impression that something else was on his mind. _Should I prompt him?_ she wondered. She decided to wait.

Malcolm fidgeted for a few more moments. "I've been a coward, Hoshi," he finally said.

"Malcolm, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about us."

_Oh!_ Hoshi's heart skipped several beats.

"_Us_, Hoshi and Malcolm?" she asked, after she had recovered her equilibrium, "or _us_, First Officer and Ops Officer?"

"Us. Hoshi and Malcolm," he answered, destroying her equilibrium all over again. "For eight years, I've kept my distance from you. I told myself it was a matter of propriety. Starfleet regulations. Fraternization policies. I was deceiving myself."

"The truth is," he said, "It was out of fear. I was afraid of being hurt if I let myself care too much. I was a craven, miserable coward! But no more. I'm not running from the woman I love because I'm afraid of a little pain. When I look at everything Trip and T'Pol have been through--are going through at this exact moment--it makes me ashamed. If I asked them if it was worth all that pain to be together, we both know how they would answer. Well, I want what they have. I want _that_ kind of relationship. With you. With _you_. For the rest of our lives, God willing, but if it's only for a day, I'll take it. I'll take whatever the universe lets us have together."

Hoshi, the consummate linguist, was struck dumb by Malcolm's frank admission. She could only watch with gleaming eyes as he got up from the bed and knelt beside her at the desk, taking one hand in both of his. "Hoshi, I want to marry you. I don't care about Starfleet, or regulations, or my career. None of that matters anymore. I care about _you_. About _us_."

_Yes yes yes_, she wanted to say, but the words couldn't get past the huge lump in her throat. She did the next best thing, and launched herself at the man she loved, tears streaming from her eyes as she felt his strong arms surrounding her.

#####

**Starbase Seven**_**,**_**Lalande III, 8 Mar 2159**

As the meeting dragged on, it became harder for Emerson to ignore the fact that he hadn't had breakfast. The more his stomach rumbled, the less attention he paid to the proceedings. Not that his input was needed anymore, he had already contributed to the meeting, and was pleased that his views had become the consensus of the group. Despite Kolna's insistence, there was little likelihood that Chancellor Shalin would actually follow through on his threat. What politician had ever voluntarily relinquished power?

Still, Gardner had insisted on analyzing the worst case scenario of Andoria withdrawing military support. He had not been happy when Emerson pointed out it would take approximately three months for the Andorian Parliament to impeach Shalin and seat a new Chancellor. Shalin would remain Chancellor for the duration of the impeachment proceedings, and the defense of Earth would rest squarely on Vulcan and Tellarite forces, and Starfleet's First, Fourth and Fifth Fleets (with Second, Third and Sixth Fleets in Romulan space for the aftermath of the assault on Rho Virginis). After much deliberation, Gardner concluded that even without the Imperial Guard, the Coalition had sufficient strength to hold off the Romulans for a three month period--if only just barely.

"I've reached a decision," Gardner announced.

_Finally_, Emerson thought, already planning what he would have for a belated lunch.

"My recommendation to the President will be that he deny the extradition request, citing the lack of evidence that any crime has been committed. As far as I'm concerned this closes the matter."

Emerson could detect no change in Commander T'Pol's expression, but Commander Tucker's face broke into a relieved smile. Emerson could certainly sympathize with him. He had found himself silently pulling for the unique couple, and he approved of Gardner's decision.

There was a subdued rustling around the room as participants prepared to leave, but Undersecretary Vaughan's voice held everyone in place. "Admiral Gardner, I think you should be aware that the President may not have the final say in this matter."

"What do you mean, Undersecretary?"

"I mean that you cannot leave United Earth's Parliament out of the equation. Many Members are likely to become extremely um... nervous... at the prospect of losing Andorian military support when the Romulans are so close to Earth. They can put tremendous pressure on the President to grant the extradition. I am not certain the President is in any position to withstand that pressure. You must be prepared for an order from the President to turn Commander T'Pol over to the Andorians."

Gardner grimaced and rubbed his eyes. In that moment he appeared supremely tired, and Emerson was reminded that this was just one of hundreds of difficult decisions that Gardner had been forced to make in the three years--had it only been three years?--that the war had been raging. A glance at the two Commanders revealed that Tucker was equally displeased with the Undersecretary's statement. T'Pol, as usual, remained expressionless.

"I am well aware of the political realities here," Gardner said, "but since I have no control over Parliament, there is nothing I can do about it." He avoided looking at T'Pol or Tucker.

The table fell silent for a long moment, then Gardner's aide, Lieutenant Rasmussen spoke, "Actually sir, there might be."

"I'm listening..."

Rasmussen approached Gardner and spoke quietly in his ear. Gardner raised his eyebrows and looked thoughtful, then he slowly smiled.

"Commander T'Pol, I have new orders for you," he said. This time he _did_ look at her.

"Admiral?" T'Pol replied.

"You are to take _Chosin_ and proceed to Eta Corvi. There you will rejoin Second Fleet and participate in the attack on Rho Virginis. You are to depart immediately after all repairs to _Chosin_ are completed. I will direct Starbase Seven's facilities to give priority to _Chosin_ and expedite repairs of her battle damage. You should be underway within two days."

"Aye, Admiral." To Emerson's eye, T'Pol seemed marginally confused.

Gardner continued, "I understand that even after repairs are completed, some systems may still be susceptible to failure at any time. Your subspace radio, for example."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow and appeared about to speak, but Tucker placed a hand on her arm. "As it happens, Admiral we _have_ been experiencing trouble with our comm systems," Tucker interjected. "They could go down at any time, and be back up ten minutes later. It's the darnedest thing, really."

Tucker glanced expectantly at T'Pol, who nodded mutely in agreement.

"Then we're done here," Gardner announced. "Commanders, please return to your ship. I want you on your way to Eta Corvi ASAP."

Tucker and T'Pol stood to leave just as Director Stark erupted with indignation, "Just what the hell are you trying to pull, Admiral? You can't tell your subordinates to ignore communications from headquarters by pretending their radio is broken. This is an outrage!"

"Nobody said anything of the sort," Gardner replied, smiling innocently. He made shooing motions toward the door, and Tucker took T'Pol by the arm and led her from the room.

"You won't get away with this, Gardner!" Stark sputtered. "I'll--"

Undersecretary Vaughan interrupted him. "For crying out loud, Jeremy. Give it a rest."

Emerson slid from his chair and hurried from the room, letting the door closed behind him before Stark could complete his outraged response. Somewhere on this station was a ham sandwich with his name on it, and he was going to find it.

#####

Subcommander Kolna left the meeting immediately behind Commander T'Pol and her mate. "Commander T'Pol, may I speak with you?"

"Yes?" T'Pol turned to face him.

Her mate kept walking. "I've got some business in Repair Department," he said over his shoulder, "I'll meet you back at the shuttlepod." T'Pol nodded in acknowledgment, then gave Kolna an expectant look.

"The humans are operating under an incorrect premise," Kolna stated. "You should not make the same mistake."

"If you are referring to their belief that Chancellor Shalin is bluffing, then we are in agreement. I am fully aware of the Chancellor's past record, and I share your view that he will not hesitate to withdraw from the war, even at the expense of his Chancellorship."

"The Admiral's orders sending you to Eta Corvi have made it a certainty that this will happen. Shalin will be furious when you are not handed over. My own analysis of the strategic situation is not so optimistic as the humans; I believe the cost of fighting without Andorian forces will be higher than the humans have predicted."

"That may be," T'Pol said, "however, I have learned that Admiral Gardner's judgment in such matters is usually quite sound.

"It would be agreeable to be proven wrong."

"Indeed," T'Pol said. "Is there anything else, Subcommander?"

Kolna hesitated, as if unsure how to continue. "Commander, I have served on the legal staff at the Vulcan Embassy for ten years now. My job requires me to work closely with my human counterparts. I am considered by my peers to be an authority on humans. Yet I am continually confounded by human actions and motivations. Perhaps I am misreading the situation, but did Admiral Gardner just put his career in jeopardy by ordering you to Eta Corvi?"

"He did. The President will almost certainly be forced to replace him when his trickery is revealed."

"I see," Kolna said. "This is not the first time a human has risked his career on your behalf, if the stories Ambassador Soval tell are true. How do you inspire such loyalty from the humans?"

T'Pol was at a loss for an answer to Kolna's question. "I am not sure... Admiral Gardner is an honorable man. He may well have done the same for anyone else accused unjustly by the Andorians. Human honor is similar to Vulcan when it comes to opposing injustice."

"Not in this case. A Vulcan Commander would realize that a withdrawal of Andorian forces would result in a lengthier war and higher casualties. When weighed against the additional lives lost, the only logical decision would be to place you into Andorian custody. In this case, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one."

T'Pol was silent, and Kolna suddenly realized that she had already considered that option. "You are surrendering yourself to the Andorians," he said, eyebrows raised.

"I... I am considering it," T'Pol said softly. "It is a... difficult decision."

She straightened and spoke again, more briskly. "I must go. Do not speak of this to anyone." She turned and walked away, without a backward glance.

Subcommander Kolna watched her go, deeply disturbed by what had just transpired. He firmly suppressed the disquieting emotion. Personal feelings simply had no place interfering with the dictates of logic. No matter how profoundly distasteful those dictates proved to be.

**Continued in Chapter 2**


	2. Chapter 2

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol faces charges in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**TWO**_**  
Chosin**_**, Lalande III, 8 Mar 2159**

T'Pol followed Trip through the docking port onto _Chosin_, and was not surprised to find Lieutenant Graham and Chief Verley waiting in the passageway just outside the airlock. She _was_ surprised to find a sizable group of _Chosin's_ officers and crew also waiting.

Lieutenant Graham caught the question implicit in her raised eyebrow. "Everyone's been sitting on pins and needles since you left for the meeting," he explained. "Not a lot of ship's work has been done. They're all anxious to hear the results. Hell, _I'm_ anxious to hear the results..."

_They are worried for me_, she realized. It was a sign of the esteem they held her in, but she could derive no satisfaction from it. Not when she was contemplating leaving them. In fact, the strain of shielding her intentions from Trip was becoming increasingly difficult. She needed time. Time alone to deal with the emotions that seethed just beyond the limits of her control. Time to analyze her options and reach a decision. A _logical_ decision.

"Commander, would you bring them up to date?" T'Pol asked Trip. "I will be in my office." She walked away without waiting for his answer.

Trip grinned and launched into a spirited account of the meeting. All eyes in the passageway were on him. All but Chief Verley's; his followed the receding back of his Captain, a troubled frown on his face.

#####

T'Pol closed the door to her office and seated herself at her desk. She took several steadying breaths, but was unable to enter even the most basic of meditative states. The requisite degree of composure and calm escaped her while under the stress of shielding her mind from Trip.

_So be it_, she thought. _I can still do this_. Using all her mental discipline, she pushed the distracting emotions aside and concentrated on the problem at hand. She would pay a heavy price for it later, but that could not be helped.

She reviewed every fact and considered every angle before arriving at the only possible conclusion-she had to turn herself over to the Andorians. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives would be lost if she did not. Hundreds dead who would otherwise live.

T'Pol took a shaky breath. _Leave my adun? My k'diwa? How can I?_ She went back over her chain of reasoning, desperately seeking a flaw, but the logic was sound.

She found herself pacing around the tiny office, and forced herself to sit. Folding her shaking hands in her lap, she stared with unseeing eyes at the data terminal on her desk. _My duty has never been more clear,_ she thought, _nor less desired._

She stood again, unable to sit any longer. If she was going to do this, it had to be now. She did not know how much longer she could hide her inner turmoil from Trip. Or how much longer her own resolve would last.

She did not need to pack, having no illusions that the Andorian authorities would allow her to keep any personal items. She pulled Hey-you from her side pocket and set him gently on the desk, then slid her wedding band from her finger and placed it next to him. She knew she should leave Trip a note, but did not know what to say, nor did she believe her composure would last long enough to complete it. In fact, she wasn't certain her composure would see her out the office door.

_I must cast out fear_, she told herself. But after years around humans, she was familiar enough with her emotions to know it wasn't fear that gripped her heart.

It was despair.

#####

T'Pol entered the transporter room and approached the operator's console. She had considered taking the shuttlepod, but that would have required clearing all personnel from the launch bay and getting the Watch Officer on the bridge to open the launch doors. The transporter, on the other hand, required no assistance from anyone who might ask difficult questions.

She entered the spatial coordinates of the Andorian liaison element at Starbase Seven, set the activation timer for a twenty second delay, then moved to the transporter pad and waited. Her body felt numb, her mind detached, almost as if she were dreaming. But this was no dream. She was actually leaving her mate. Her ship. The people she cared for and who cared for her. She could not know if or when she would ever see them again. _No, best not to think of that. It is too painful..._

T'Pol suddenly realized that more than twenty seconds had passed and the transporter had not activated. Confused, she glanced around and froze at the sight of Chief Verley leaning against the operator's console.

"Going somewhere, Captain?"

"I... I have business at the Starbase. Activate the transporter, please."

"I don't think so."

T'Pol put on what Trip called her Captain's Face. "That was not a request; it was an order."

"I don't care. You're not leaving this ship until I'm sure you're coming back."

T'Pol briefly considered nerve-pinching him, then her common sense prevailed. She would have to resort to persuasion. "Chief, I _must_ do this. The fact that you have divined my intentions means you understand what is at stake. Do not stand in my way. Please!"

Chief Verley had never seen his Captain so distraught, and he regarded her thoughtfully for several long moments. "Very well, ma'am. I'll let you leave if you can answer 'yes' to one question: Does Commander Tucker know what you're planning?"

T'Pol avoided his gaze. "No," she murmured.

"Don't you think he should?"

T'Pol would still not meet his gaze. "He will try to stop me."

Verley sighed. "Captain... you are making a terrible mistake. Your husband needs to know. He _deserves_ to know. If you do not tell him, you will regret it for the rest of your life."

Regret. A very powerful emotion. _Vulcans do not feel regret_, T'Pol wanted to say, but she knew it wasn't true. And she knew Chief Verley was right. She _would_ come to regret it.

_How is it I did not realize this sooner?_ she wondered. She knew the answer to that, as well. She was ruthlessly suppressing all feeling and relying solely on logic to guide her, and there was no room within her logic for regret. Or despair. Or heartache. Only duty, and the calculus of lives that might be saved.

T'Pol stepped off the transporter pad, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her. "I will speak with him."

"I'll go with you." Verley clearly did not intend to let her out of his sight.

#####

Trip was at his desk in the ChEng's office when T'Pol entered, a grim-faced Chief Verley right behind her. He immediately sensed her turmoil. "T'Pol?"

T'Pol didn't answer him, speaking to Verley instead. "Thank you, Chief."

Verley backed out of the office. "I'll be right out here," he said.

"That won't be necessary."

"I'll be right out here," Verley repeated firmly.

T'Pol nodded, and Verley left, closing the door behind him.

"T'Pol? What is it? What's wrong?" Her rigid stance and the set of her mouth fairly screamed trouble.

"I must turn myself over to the Andorians," she told him, bracing herself for the explosion to follow.

Trip merely lifted his eyebrows and regarded her closely. "You were going to leave without telling me."

T'Pol realized she had relaxed her mental shields after Verley found her in the transporter room. It was a relief to be free of _that_ additional strain. "I am sorry," she said.

"Sorry? T'Pol, I did a little research after Gardner told us about the extradition request. Do you know what I learned?"

"No."

"Being sent to an Andorian prison is a death sentence for Vulcans. Very few survive the ordeal. What are you _thinking_?"

"Trip. I was a field agent with the V'Shar, in the Security Directorate. I know quite well what to expect. I also know I can survive."

"Is that so? Then tell me. What do they do to Vulcan prisoners, and why would you survive when so many of your people don't?" Trip had not reacted with the anger T'Pol had expected over her attempted flight, and she had begun to relax. She tensed up again at his question. _This is a touchy subject with her_, Trip realized.

"Eventually, they... the Vulcan prisoners... enter pon farr. When they do, they... the fortunate ones... are placed in isolation."

"What do you mean, 'the fortunate ones?' Doesn't isolating Vulcans while in pon farr kill them?"

"Yes," T'Pol replied. "Most of the time."

"How is _that_ fortunate?"

"The guards will... will _use_ the prisoners that are not isolated. Sexually. _Those_ do not die."

Trip's blood ran cold.

"The guards also make it difficult for Vulcans to meditate," T'Pol said. "Without sufficient meditation, in a high-stress environment, Vulcans can eventually become emotionally unbalanced. They become prone to fits of rage, giving the guards cause to shoot them. In self-defense, you understand."

"My God..."

T'Pol continued her grim litany. "Vulcan prisoners receive no consideration for their diet. Every meal contains meat, but you already know I am capable of consuming meat in order to survive."

_I also know the toll it takes on you_, Trip thought. On the other hand, with his help she could maintain her emotional stability indefinitely, despite Andorian efforts to prevent her from getting proper meditation. Pon farr was not an issue either, since she would never experience _that_ (also due to him). He had to-grudgingly-admit that she _could_ survive where most Vulcans would die. At the moment, he was not quite sure this was a good thing.

She drove the point home. "Because of our bond, the risk factors that imperil other Vulcans do not apply to me. I am therefore able to turn myself over to the Andorians."

_Because of our bond..._ An unsettling thought occurred to Trip. "T'Pol, how far will this bond we have reach?"

"I-I do not believe there is a limit..." T'Pol replied in an uncertain tone.

"How can that be? Every telepathic species we've encountered has a range limit on their abilities. Even the Aenar from Andoria required a mechanical amplifier to operate over interstellar distances. So, what's the range of a Vulcan mating bond?"

T'Pol shook her head, "I told you, I do not believe it has a range."

"Do you mean to say the range is infinite? Or that you just don't know? We've been as far as six light years apart when you were on _Ki'Vaar,_ and that didn't seem to affect our bond. But there has to be a... a maximum range. Doesn't there? What does the Vulcan Science Directorate say?"

"The Science Directorate was disbanded by the High Council nearly two years ago," T'Pol stated.

"Really? Why?"

"I'm surprised you need to ask, in view of the accuracy of their findings. Or should I say the inaccuracy? They were simply wrong too many times about too many things. Instead of a Science Directorate, the High Council has adopted a model similar to Earth's, where scientific findings are published in peer-reviewed journals."

Under other circumstances, Trip would have been delighted by the irony of Vulcan emulating the human model for scientific research, and he would have needled T'Pol mercilessly. At the moment, though, he could take no joy from the fact.

"Well there must be SOME research," he suggested. "Mating bonds are central to Vulcan relationships-you expect me to believe the scientific community has just ignored them all these hundreds of years? I need to know how far apart we can get before we lose the... the connection. The link. The whatever-it-is."

"To my knowledge, a maximum range has never been discovered," T'Pol said. "As for the scientific community, investigation into such matters was discouraged prior to the Kir'shara being found."

"So no one knows the maximum range because research on bonds was suppressed? That's just peachy."

"_Scientific_ research was suppressed. There is, however, a large body of literature on the topic, most notably the ancient kitalu t'oveh. The scriptures of the saints. Accepted wisdom has it that a mating bond is fundamentally different from a telepathic link. As you pointed out, telepathy is subject to attenuation over distance. In fact, a telepathic link obeys the inverse-square law. It is a well-understood, subspace-based phenomenon. We can build machines to amplify and direct psionic energy. No such ability exists for a mating bond. The physical mechanism by which two bonded individuals are linked is currently-to the best of my knowledge-unknown."

"That doesn't exactly fill me with confidence," Trip said. "There must be SOME mechanism linking us."

"In the kitalu t'oveh, a bond is considered to be the joining or merging of two people's katras. At one time, I would have considered that mystical nonsense. No scientist has yet managed to detect or measure a person's katra. Yet, I have first-hand evidence of their existence; evidence that I cannot discount." Trip knew she referred to the time Jonathon Archer carried the katra of Surak, and was privy to knowledge that only Surak could have known.

Trip had to admit that T'Pol's statements regarding the nature of bonds matched his own experience. When she had been light-years away from him on the Vulcan ship _Ki'Vaar_, he could detect no changes to their bond. No weakening of intensity, no delay or latency. She might as well have been in the next room. He took a small measure of comfort from the knowledge that no known distance was great enough to affect the link they shared.

But that didn't mean he was going to let her be sent to an Andorian prison.

"Okay, T'Pol, I'll concede the point. Our bond will function while you're in prison. Our bond will keep you alive in that hell-hole. But it's a moot point. There is no need to turn yourself in. Doctor Emerson said Shalin is bluffing."

"And if he is not? If the Imperial Guard stands down? Even if only for three months, what would the cost in lives be? How many more would die-deaths I could have prevented?"

"T'Pol, nobody can blame you for those deaths. They are on Shalin's head, not yours. Nobody can ask you to do this. Nobody!"

"Nobody _is_ asking me; I go voluntarily. Trip, I know you do not believe it, but Shalin is not bluffing. Do not take my word for it; check the Vulcan database. You will find many examples of his extreme prejudice."

Trip briefly considered her words, then turned to his data console. "Why don't you have a seat?" he suggested. "I don't know how long this is going to take."

#####

**Vulcan courier vessel **_**Igen-wesh**_**, Lalande III, 8 Mar 2159**

Subcommander Kolna waited patiently to see if his subspace call to the Vulcan embassy on Earth would get through. Had he not been Vulcan, he might have considered crossing his fingers-that seemed to be something humans did when they desired a favorable outcome from events over which they had no control. Fortunately he was Vulcan, and realized that the configuration of his fingers could not influence events beyond the reach of his arms.

In this particular case, a favorable outcome was not at all assured. Small, fast Romulan vessels were known to prowl the space between the Coalition and its front lines, seeking out and destroying the subspace relays by which contact with higher headquarters was maintained. The blackouts were of short duration, since new relays were constantly being laid, but even a temporary interruption of communications was a hindrance to the war effort.

After an unusually long wait, Kolna began to suspect that the chain of relays had indeed been disrupted. He reached for the disconnect button, but the display resolved into Ambassador Soval's likeness before he could press it. The call log in the corner of his screen showed his connection going through Vulcan-it seemed some relays were destroyed, but the network was able to route around them.

Soval got straight to the point. "Subcommander Kolna, what have you to report?"

"Admiral Gardner has concluded his review and will be strongly recommending to the United Earth President that the Andorian extradition request be denied. The consensus among humans is that Chancellor Shalin will not follow through with his threat to withdraw from the war."

"That is the outcome I predicted," Soval said. "Humans have no experience with Andorian extremism. They expect Andorians to act as humans would. I presume you attempted to correct their misconceptions?"

"I did, but without success. Not only did Admiral Gardner disregard my input, but he ordered Commander T'Pol to take her ship to Eta Corvi so she would be out of reach if the President chooses to extradite her. It was an astonishing display of insubordination on the Admiral's part."

"As you become more accustomed to humans, you will learn to be astonished only when they are _not_ behaving in an astonishing manner."

Kolna reflected on his previous dealings with humans. "I believe you are correct," he agreed, "yet I do not understand how human organizations can function when individual humans feel free to flout the decisions of their superiors."

"This is a discussion that merits more time than we now have," Soval said. "I would be agreeable to continuing it upon your return to Earth. For now, realize that there are consequences when humans flout the rules and dictates of their superiors. Humans will consult what they call their 'conscience' to determine if the rewards of violating the rules are worth the consequences. Some humans will do so for personal gain, others for the greater good."

If anything, Soval's explanation left Kolna even more confused. "But Admiral Gardner's action did neither," he pointed out. "He clearly risked much and gained nothing when he ordered T'Pol to Eta Corvi. And just as clearly it did not contribute to the greater good, since it assures that Andoria will withdraw from the war."

"When human actions seem to violate all tenants of logic and reason, it is usually wise to reexamine your understanding of the situation. There are often reasons for their actions that are not immediately apparent."

"Then what am I overlooking?" Kolna challenged.

Soval pondered the question for a long moment before speaking. "I believe you are not considering the impact it would have on Starfleet if Commander T'Pol were handed over to the Andorians. They would consider it a betrayal on the part of their leaders. It would cause many negative emotions that could inhibit their combat effectiveness."

"They would feel betrayed? But Commander T'Pol is not one of them."

Soval slipped effortlessly into mentor mode. "Reflect carefully on your words, Subcommander."

Kolna did so, reviewing his words against what he had seen in the meeting. He was chagrined to find a flaw in his reasoning. "The humans consider her to be one of them," he realized, "not a Vulcan. Yet she behaved as a Vulcan would at the meeting-how can this be?"

"I cannot answer that. I am not even certain Commander T'Pol could answer it." Soval's expression changed, signaling a change in topic, "But there is no time for speculation. I must begin preparing the High Council for the eventuality that Andoria will withdraw from the war. The Isolationist members will argue against Vulcan forces assuming a greater role in the defense of Earth, but I do not believe their arguments will sway the Council by more than two votes. The Vulcan Fleet must also be warned, so they can begin planning the necessary redeployment of forces."

"It may not come to that, Ambassador," Kolna said. "I spoke with Commander T'Pol after the meeting and I believe she is planning to turn herself over to the Andorians in order to preserve the Coalition."

"Indeed?" Soval's eyebrows shot up, and Kolna was not sure whether he was registering surprise, or something more troubling. Worry? Kolna pushed the unworthy suspicion aside.

"Did Commander T'Pol tell you this?" Soval asked.

"Not precisely. She said she was considering it, and asked me not to speak of it with anyone." Kolna hesitated before continuing, "Commander T'Pol once worked for you in the Embassy. Do you believe she will turn herself over? Even though Admiral Gardner ordered her to Eta Corvi?"

"Yes," Soval said slowly, "yes, I believe she will." The suspicion that Soval was actually _worried_ returned to Kolna, stronger than before. Once more, he pushed it aside. No Vulcan of Soval's stature and prestige would indulge in such emotions.

"She is making the logical decision," Kolna observed approvingly, "even though she must disobey her superiors. And even though the Andorians will deal harshly with her once they have her in custody."

"Yes... it is the only logical decision," Soval agreed. "And I am certain T'Pol knows better than either of us what trials await her at the hands of the Andorians. Is there anything else, Subcommander?"

"No, Ambassador. Peace and long life to you."

"Live long and prosper." Soval broke the connection and Kolna stared at the blank screen for a long moment. He did not understand why, but Ambassador Soval had seemed greatly unsettled by his call, and that fact alone was enough to unsettle Kolna.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Lalande III, 8 Mar 2159**

Trip leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. Much as he hated to admit it, there seemed to be ample evidence that Chancellor Shalin was NOT bluffing. The information in the Vulcan database indicated Shalin's nature was extremely volatile, and he seemed more than capable of sacrificing his political career for a personal vendetta, as long as it was directed at the reviled and hated Vulcans. One incident in particular convinced Trip that T'Pol was right: In his youth, Shalin had served as an aide to his province's Parliamentary Representative. During a foreign-policy debate, the young Shalin had physically assaulted the Vulcan Ambassador on the floor of the Parliament. The Ambassador suffered only minor injuries and Shalin suffered only mild legal consequences, but as a result of the incident, Shalin's name became a household word throughout Andoria. His political career was launched.

"Okay, I get it," Trip said, as T'Pol watched him expectantly. "Shalin is a nut-case and he's not bluffing. You have to turn yourself in."

T'Pol blinked. She had not expected such rapid capitulation.

"Of course, I'm going with you," he continued, in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

"Trip. You cannot."

"Try and stop me."

"I do not wish to stop you, my love. I wish to never be separated from you. But the Andorians will not permit it. You _know_ this is so."

"At least we'll be on the same planet, T'Pol. At least I can come and visit you."

T'Pol was not sure they would allow even that much, but chose not to mention it. "Trip, if you come to Andoria, who will command _Chosin_?"

"Lieutenant Graham."

"He is ready to be First Officer. He is not yet ready for command."

"Then Starfleet will find someone who is," Trip said. As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized they weren't true. There _was_ no one else. Anyone with any experience at all was already commanding a ship.

"Trip, you must command _Chosin_. You have the knowledge and experience. You know the ship. You know the crew. You have their trust. It can be no other."

It was in that moment it all finally sank in. T'Pol was going to Andoria. By herself. It hit Trip like a punch to the gut, and he exhaled noisily as he slumped back in his chair. "I don't know if I can do this, T'Pol. I don't know if I can let you go." His voice dropped to a whisper, "I'm not that strong..."

T'Pol touched him lightly on the arm, "You are the strongest person I know." She was trying to be reassuring, but her eyes could not hide the pain she felt. Nor could she hide the turmoil that roiled just beneath the surface of her calm veneer.

Trip felt the conflict raging within her, the conflict between her instinctive need to protect her mate and her duty to save hundreds of lives. In a flash of perceptiveness, he realized her need to protect him would trump all else. He was astonished and humbled by the insight: she would not leave him if leaving caused him such pain. Yet at the same time, she would be forced to endure the great shame of having neglected her logical duty. _How very Vulcan_, Trip realized. _How very T'Pol._

He knew what he WANTED to do. He wanted to cry and rage and shake his fist at an unjust universe. He also knew what he HAD to do. He had to be calm and reasonable and help T'Pol stay in control.

Somehow he knew that today, after making such a momentous and difficult decision, she needed to be in charge of her emotions. She needed to feel like a Vulcan. Intuitively, he knew she could not do that if she felt responsible for his emotions, or thought that she was causing him pain.

He used all the mental discipline he had learned from her over the years they were married, and he suppressed his own feelings. If T'Pol needed to be Vulcan, he was going to give her that gift.

Trip stood, pulling her into a tight embrace. "I'll miss you, darling," he said, projecting calm acceptance of her decision. And pride.

Yes, pride. How could he not be proud? It was her great tenacity and courage and decency and loyalty and faithfulness-_everything_ that made her who she was-that led her on this course of action in the first place. It was everything that he loved about her. Yes, he was proud of her; his brave, loyal T'Pol, and his pride helped to ease the sting of her leaving.

"Thank you, Trip. Thank you for understanding."

Trip's only answer was to hug her even tighter.

T'Pol returned his hug. She was going to miss this human means of conveying affection much more than was proper for a Vulcan, but she didn't care. She was surprised, pleasantly so, at how much calmer she was now than just moments before. She realized that most of her prior upheaval had not been at the thought of leaving her mate-though that _still_ hurt-but at the thought of deceiving him. Of leaving without his knowledge or permission. If Chief Verley had not stopped her... she suppressed a shudder.

She lifted her head from Trip's chest. "Trip, we must speak with Chief Verley."

"Sure, darling." Trip relaxed his hold on her, and she stepped to the door, pulling it open. "Chief?"

True to his word, Verley was just outside the office, leaning against the bulkhead as he waited. "Yes ma'am," he said, straightening.

"Please come in," T'Pol said, taking up a position next to Trip. Verley entered, closing the door behind him.

"Chief, it is decided. I will turn myself over to the Andorians, and Commander Tucker will assume command of _Chosin_."

Verley blew out a breath he had not realized he was holding and sagged noticeably. For a brief moment, he had a familiar look in his eyes, one that T'Pol had seen too many times before. It was the look he got when one of the crew had been killed in action. The moment passed and he pulled himself upright, once again the consummate professional. "Aye, Captain."

"Chief Verley, I... I owe you a debt I can never repay. You stopped me from leaving, earlier. I was not thinking clearly. You prevented me from making a terrible mistake, and I thank you for that."

Verley nodded. "Captain... may I speak freely?"

"When have you ever needed my permission to speak your mind?"

Verley allowed a tiny smile to cross his lips. "I guess never, ma'am, which is a tribute to you. To your leadership."

His smile was replaced by an earnest, almost pleading expression, "Captain, you've done enough already-more than anyone has a right to ask of you. You don't have to do _this_. I understand your reasons. I know you want to save lives. I know you're trying to prevent the casualties that would occur if the Imperial Guard withdraws. But believe me when I tell you that there's not a single member of Starfleet who wouldn't gladly risk being one of those casualties to keep you out of an Andorian prison. Not one."

T'Pol reached out, tentatively touching Verley on the arm, and he blinked in surprise. In all the years they had worked together, he could not remember her ever touching him before. She spoke, and her voice was steady, but her eyes seemed to shine with a soft light. "That they would do this for me... that _you_ would do this... just demonstrates how worthy of my sacrifice you all are."

Verley was momentarily distressed that his appeal had back-fired. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Trip beat him to it. "It's okay, Chief, she'll be alright. I wouldn't let her go if I thought she couldn't handle it."

Verley had to grin. "Actually, Commander, I was more worried about the Andorians. They sure as hell don't know what they're in for." They both began to chuckle and their chuckles grew. Soon they were laughing uncontrollably.

T'Pol looked on, amused by the spectacle, though she didn't see the humor. She had learned over time to take pleasure in human laughter, even when she didn't 'get' it. It was just one more of the many things she would miss. "It is good to see you both so concerned for our Andorian allies," she observed, once their laughter had subsided. This touched off a fresh round of hilarity.

"So, Captain, when are you leaving?" Verley managed to gasp out, once he could speak again.

She glanced at Trip, who answered for her. "Two days. Right before the deadline."

Verley nodded, the last vestiges humor fading from his face. "I guess this is it, then. It's been one hell of a ride, Captain. And a great honor to serve with you."

"I, too, feel privileged to have served with you, Chief," T'Pol said.

There was more-_much_ more-Verley wanted to say regarding the tremendous admiration and respect he felt for his Captain, but he recognized that such an outpouring of human sentiment was probably not something she needed to hear right now. He promised himself that someday, probably after the war, he would make a point of letting her know the full extent of his esteem, and Vulcan sensibilities be damned.

In the meantime he was still her LCPO, and responsible for the welfare of the crew. "You're going to have to tell the crew what you're doing, you know. And sooner rather than later."

"Yes, I am aware of that," she said, but Verley suspected (and Trip _knew_) that she had not actually considered it prior to Verley's comment. "I am not certain what to say..." she continued, confirming Verley's suspicion.

"You'll do fine," Trip responded. "Just say what's in your heart."

T'Pol nodded, and reflected on just how much the years-and the war-had changed her. _Once, that statement would have been incomprehensible to me. Utterly devoid of any meaning. But now, I understand it all too well._

#####

Ensign Bowman entered the rapidly-filling cargo hold and found a spot near the far bulkhead, next to Crewman Emeku who was fiddling with a tripod-mounted video recorder.

"Any idea what's going on?" Bowman asked. All he knew was that the Captain had called a muster of all hands in the hold for 1900. None of his fellow officers seemed to know why.

"No sir," Emeku replied. "Verley told me to record it, but he didn't tell me why. Sorry."

"S'okay," Bowman said, "I'm just curious. I suppose we'll find out in..." he glanced at the time, "three more minutes."

Emeku grinned. "Count on it, sir. Khart-lan will walk through those doors at _precisely_ 1900, plus or minus five seconds. You can set your watch by it."

As a member of the bridge crew, Bowman was well-acquainted with Khart-lan's punctuality. _Khart-lan_. He took a moment to savor the fact that he had only recently earned the right to call her that. He was almost as proud of that as he was of firing the phase cannon that had destroyed romeo-two in the Teneebian sector. His shot had hit the Romulan warbird at the base of the starboard nacelle, rupturing the main plasma lines. The flood of incandescent plasma had finished the job his phase cannon started, and the ship broke apart in a cascading series of explosions.

"Good shooting, Ensign," the Captain-_no, Khart-lan_-had said. Just three simple words, but he would never forget how they had made him feel.

The door opened and Khart-lan entered the hold, Commander Tucker and Chief Verley right behind her. _Three seconds after 1900_, Bowman noted with amusement. Verley sent Emeku a quizzical look, and Emeku responded with a nod, indicating that the recorder was ready.

Using a wire conduit running along the bulkhead as a handhold, Captain T'Pol pulled herself gracefully onto a torpedo packing crate, which had been positioned at the back of the hold as a makeshift dais. She waited calmly as a couple of stragglers-apologetic looks on their faces-scurried through the door and joined the rest of the ship's complement.

"Thank you for coming," she began, as the stragglers took their places, "I-"

Crewman Emeku interrupted her, "Excuse me, Khart-lan," he called, "you need to speak up for the recorder."

"Is this sufficient?" T'Pol asked, in a slightly louder voice.

Emeku tweaked a knob on the tiny recorder, then gave her a thumbs-up.

She continued from where she'd left off, "I believe you are all aware that Chancellor Shalin of Andoria has requested that I be extradited to Andoria for my role in the destruction of the freighter _Ketalan_. He has threatened to withdraw his forces from the war effort if United Earth does not comply." There was a restless stirring among the assembled crew, but it subsided quickly.

"You must also know that the Starfleet Commandant has recommended against my extradition in the strongest possible terms. He has not and will not allow me to be surrendered to the Andorians. I am humbled by the loyalty and support I have received from him. You may all be proud, as am I, to belong to such an organization."

She paused briefly, her eyes roaming across the attentive faces of her crew. "The Coalition still has much to do, but we have reached a point in this war where victory is within our grasp. That is why it is imperative that Andoria remain in the fight. I have decided I cannot stand by and allow the extra casualties that will surely result if Andoria withdraws. Not when it is in my power to prevent them. Therefore, I am announcing that I will voluntarily place myself into Andorian custody.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a clamor of protest.

"At ease!" Verley commanded, and the clamor subsided.

T'Pol gave Verley an appreciative glance before continuing, "I wish to make it very clear that I arrive at this decision freely, under no pressure or coercion from Starfleet or the United Earth government. I tell you this to avoid any animosity between Starfleet and the Andorian Imperial Guard. You must continue to work closely with _all_ our allies in order to prosecute this war to a successful conclusion. I cannot stress this enough. I am recording this statement to be disseminated throughout Starfleet, in order that everyone may know my reasons for doing this."

"In my absence, Commander Tucker will assume command of _Chosin_. I expect you to show him the same consideration, respect and loyalty that you gave to me. If you do, _Chosin_ will continue her long string of successes against the forces of the Romulan Star Empire." Her words were greeted with nods and quiet affirmations by the crew.

"Finally, I wish to say... to tell you all..." her voice trailed off into silence, and Bowman swallowed around the large lump that had inexplicably formed in his throat. He shot a quick glance at Crewman Emeku, and wondered briefly if his own face wore the same stunned expression.

He returned his attention to his Captain-his _Khart-lan_-who was clearly struggling to find the right words. He had never seen her appear quite so discomfited; it was quite a contrast to the calm presence she had projected on the bridge amidst the chaos of battle. He vividly recalled the surge of fear that had gripped him during _Chosin's_ recent action, when Lieutenant Koussa announced sixteen torpedoes were inbound from romeo-two. Her steady voice had cut through his fear and focused his mind on his duties. When he felt the fear creeping back, a glance at her composed figure in the Captain's chair was all he needed to dispel it again.

After the battle, he had mentioned this to Ensign Litke, the other junior officer on the bridge crew. Litke laughed at his admission. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean," he said. "It's hard to be scared when Khart-lan knows exactly what the Romulans are going to do next. She's always two steps ahead of them."

T'Pol took a couple of centering breaths and tried again, "I wish you to know-each of you-how honored I am to have been your Captain. I am Vulcan, but I have learned much in my time among humans. Because of what I have learned from you, I am able to say, without shame or uncertainty, that I am proud of you all. I am proud of the tremendous courage you've shown in the face of overwhelming odds. I am proud of your great integrity. I am proud of your astounding accomplishments. You have earned my unending gratitude for the support and friendship you have freely given to me. I..." she paused for another calming breath, "I will miss you. Each and every one of you."

It was a startling admission, coming from a Vulcan, and Bowman was suitably startled by it. At the same time, he had to admit that it was strangely appropriate. _Humans are supposed to be more in touch with their emotions than Vulcans_, Bowman mused, _yet I cannot imagine a human Captain saying these things with any more grace or dignity than Khart-lan has shown just now_. Vulcan or not, her words seemed both heartfelt and... and _right_.

"That is all I have to say," T'Pol concluded. "I will be leaving in two days. In the meantime, please refrain from mentioning this to anyone outside of _Chosin_. No one else is to know of my leaving until I am in Andorian custody. You are dismissed." T'Pol stepped down from her impromptu stage and joined Commander Tucker and Chief Verley by the door. At a sign from Verley, Emeku stopped the recorder and began collapsing and folding the tripod.

The crew, once dismissed, did not disperse. They gathered in small groups and talked in hushed tones, their expressions betraying varying degrees of consternation and surprise. As Bowman watched, they began making their way, in ones and twos, over to where T'Pol stood, each desiring an opportunity for a more personal farewell.

A line began forming, snaking around the cargo hold as it grew. Bowman held back, having been aboard less than two months-fifty-two days, to be precise-and it seemed fitting that he should let the old hands go first. Even having known her such a short time, he felt a profound sense of loss at her imminent departure. He could scarcely imagine what the original crew members must be feeling.

He took the opportunity to watch as a _Chosin's_ crew filed past their Captain, a steady procession of somber-faced humans, speaking quietly and shaking hands. It was Lieutenant Walder who first broke with protocol. Tears streaming from her eyes, she pulled Captain T'Pol into a tight embrace. Even more amazing was the Captain's response: She returned Walder's hug, patting her on the back in a consoling manner. She spoke a few words, and Walder pulled back, nodding and smiling weakly as she wiped at her eyes.

After Walder broke the ice, T'Pol found herself the recipient of numerous hugs, which she endured with the same easy grace she had shown to Lieutenant Walder. Moose, when her turn came, was nearly inconsolable. She clung to the Captain and sobbed unashamedly. When Moose made no move to end the hug on her own accord, T'Pol began to look around, a helpless expression on her face. Petty Officer Trinh stepped in and gently disengaging the distraught crewman. She was still sobbing as he led her away.

Eventually, there was no one left in line but him. "Khart-lan," he said.

"Ensign Bowman."

"I-uh-I'm going to miss you, ma'am. _Chosin_ won't be the same without you."

"Thank you, Ensign. You acquitted yourself well in your first combat action. I am leaving the ship in capable hands."

He flushed with pleasure at her compliment. "I have to say, ma'am, you handled this parade of human emotion very well. It must have been difficult for a Vulcan to endure."

"This is a trying time for everyone, Ensign. Vulcan _and_ human. If I am able to provide any solace or comfort with a simple hug, then I am honored to do so."

Bowman suddenly realized how his words might have been misconstrued, and he started to stammer out an apology.

The words were barely out of his mouth when T'Pol pulled him into a brief embrace. "No apology is necessary," she said. "Stay safe, Ensign Bowman. It is my intention to see you again once this war is behind us."

He could only nod mutely and watch as she turned to Chief Verley and Commander Tucker, who were waiting patiently behind her.

"We may go now," she said.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Lalande III, 9 Mar 2159**

Trip drummed his fingers on the desk in their quarters as he listened to a steady stream of last-minute directions from T'Pol. While he appreciated her desire to endow him with all her hard-won command experience, she was leaving tomorrow for God-only-knew how long and this was not how he had envisioned spending their last night together.

"...you must continue holding meetings of the Board of Dirty Tricks before every operation. Chief Verley will handle all the administrative details; you need only tell him when you desire to meet. You must keep an open mind when evaluating the Board's suggestions, as they are often more worthwhile than they initially appear."

"You should ask Chief Verley to review all operational plans and orders that involve _Chosin_. I often allow him to accompany me to the briefings at Fleet. His insights on tactical matters are always sound. If he recommends an action, you should consider it carefully before dismissing it."

"He can also advise you on the strengths and weaknesses of your bridge crew. Lieutenant Graham is excellent at the weapons station, but when Romulan torpedoes are inbound, he has a tendency to salvo defensive torpedoes a few seconds too early. If the tactical situation warrants, you might want to transfer launch control to the command chair."

"Petty Officer Trinh is impulsive, even for a human, but those qualities actually seem to help in the midst of battle. Give him a general idea of what you want, then leave the details to him. His piloting solutions are usually superior to what I would have directed, and it frees me to concentrate on other aspects of the-"

Trip interrupted her flow of instructions, "T'Pol?"

"Yes?"

"That's all very good information," Trip said. "Where did you learn so much about the art of human leadership?"

T'Pol arched an eyebrow as she recognized the subtle trap that Trip had laid for her. "From you, my love. As you well know. I suppose I should 'shut up' now, as you would so delicately put it."

"Yes. Because it's my turn to talk," he said. "How do you feel?"

"I am fine." She was puzzled by his question, but content to see where he was going with it.

"So you say. But do you realize that you have not meditated since we found out about the extradition request yesterday morning?"

"I have been extremely busy," T'Pol responded, "as have you."

"True. But you've also experienced some pretty traumatic events recently. And while I'd have to say you're handling them pretty well, I think maybe you're overdue for some serious meditation."

"Very well, Trip. Since our remaining time together grows short, perhaps you would assist me with one of your 'express' meditations." It was actually her preferred method of meditation, but shortly after the war started Trip had become concerned she was becoming too dependent on him for her emotional stability. He'd insisted that she meditate in what he called 'the old-fashioned way' so she wouldn't lose the ability to center herself on her own. T'Pol came to realize he was right. Under the relentless pressures of the war, she'd been forced to improve the efficiency of her personal meditation, although it hadn't always been easy.

Trip grinned at her request. "I thought you might say that." He dimmed the lights and reclined on the bunk, patting the spot next to him.

T'Pol joined him, leaning against him while he wrapped his arms around her in a tender embrace. Their thoughts merged, and she relinquished control of her conscious mind. For a Vulcan, this was the ultimate act of trust, but Trip had earned such trust a thousand times over. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she lost herself in a warm tide of wonder and delight. It swirled around her, carrying her away to timeless places where logic and duty did not exist, where there was only her mate, herself, and the improbable love that they had found in each other.

When she finally returned to herself, she was restored. Renewed. The nameless emotions and unreleased feelings that had gnawed at the edges of her control were gone. In their place was peace and tranquility. The sound of Trip's breathing and the steady beating of his heart filled her with a sense of contentment and well-being, and she felt that she could remain in his arms forever.

"How do you feel _now_, darling?" he murmured.

"Mmmmm..." Slowly and luxuriously, T'Pol stretched in a way she knew Trip found irresistible, then she turned until her lips brushed his. "It's my turn," she whispered.

Trip returned her kiss, then pulled back so he could see her face. "First we need to talk."

He took both her hands in his, in a manner he only used when he was about to discuss something he considered of great import. "I'm worried about you, T'Pol," he said.

"We have already discussed this, Trip. There is no need to worry."

"No. We discussed how the bond would keep you safe. But what if something happens to me? I'm on a warship going into some pretty dangerous places. There is a chance I might be killed. What happens to you, then?"

T'Pol would not meet his gaze. "The benefits of being bonded to you would be lost. It is doubtful I would survive long after that. Not in an Andorian prison."

Trip sighed. "Yeah, I was afraid that's what you'd say."

"It is an eventuality I wish never to see, but we both know it is possible. I am willing to accept the risk."

"Well maybe I'm not."

"What choice have we, Trip?"

"The choice to live." He tightened his grip on her hands, as if to emphasis his point. "T'Pol, I know you are willing to die for me. But are you willing to _live_ for me?"

"I... I do not understand..."

"If something happens to me, I want you to live. It won't be easy-you'll have to fight for every breath-but you can do it. I _know_ you can."

"Trip... I have told you everything that awaits me on Andoria. I cannot face that alone. Not without you. I cannot!"

"Bullshit. You are stronger than you realize. Look at how well you handled news of the extradition request. Look at all the trauma you've dealt with in the past. How about at Chi Eridani? We lost four people when turret two exploded. We lost another two in engineering from a rommie disruptor. I was in sickbay with a couple of fractured ribs and a concussion. You held it together and got _Chosin_ back in one piece. All by yourself, as I recall. So don't tell me you can't do it. You can."

"Chi Eridani was... difficult," T'Pol agreed, "but you were still alive, even if you could not assist me with my control."

"Which is precisely my point. You did it without me. Without my help. T'Pol, before the war you required much more meditation than you do now, even though the stresses now are far greater. Why is that?"

"I have become more adept at meditation."

"That's part of it. But you've also become familiar with human methods of handling emotions, and you have begun using them without even being aware of it."

T'Pol was startled to realize that Trip was right. Subconsciously, she had been controlling her feelings by employing techniques she had learned from him. And unlike traditional Vulcan meditation, these human techniques were enhanced rather than hindered by the trellium-D induced impairments to her neural pathways. She had been unaware of it until he pointed it out, but now that he had, it was perfectly obvious. She still required meditation, but she required much less than she once would have thought possible.

"Perhaps you are right," T'Pol said, "Perhaps I could survive. But Trip... if you were killed and _Chosin_ destroyed, I am not sure I would desire to live. I cannot imagine life without you."

"Then just accept that I would want you to live. Do it for me, T'Pol. Do it because I'm asking you."

_This is important to him_, T'Pol realized. _He is truly distressed at the thought I would not survive his death_. "Very well," she said. "I will attempt to live, should something happen to you."

Trip was gazing at her intently. "Promise me, T'Pol. Promise me that you will."

"I promise, Trip."

He nodded, and some of the intensity seemed to leave him. He was satisfied; T'Pol had promised, and she had never willingly gone back on her word. Ever. "Thank you, T'Pol. This means a lot to me."

She nodded. She did not understand why it meant so much to him, nor did she need to. He thought it important, and that was reason enough.

She gently disengaged her hands from his, leaning in to capture his lips with hers. Her previous attempt at seduction had been sidetracked, but in her dutiful Vulcan fashion, she was making another attempt. He had no illusions that she was motivated by physical desire-her physical needs were nowhere near as strong as his. She simply did not need it; not like _he_ needed it.

Yes, she derived pleasure from their sexual activity, sometimes a great deal of pleasure, but that in itself was not a valid reason for a Vulcan to act. He realized she was driven primarily by her Vulcan sense of duty. She was fulfilling her obligation to her mate. Once, that fact would have bothered him. But now? He found there was something incredibly sexy about her earnest and oh-so-logical desire to please him.

He pulled her in close, returning her kisses with increasing fervor. After all, who was he to interfere with a Vulcan in the performance of her duties?

#####

**Shuttlepod en-route to Starbase Seven, Lalande III, 10 Mar 2159**

Petty Officer Trinh finished coordinating with Station Control for an available docking port, then called up a schematic of Starbase Seven on the shuttlepod's data terminal to make sure they had given him the right one. He had requested a port that serviced the Andorian liaison element, but docking ports all tended to look the same, and the Starbase had dozens of them. Once he had located and verified the assigned port, he glanced over his shoulder to where Khart-lan and Chief Verley sat conversing in subdued tones.

"I've got clearance to dock," he announced, "We'll be there in five minutes."

"Thank you, Dat," T'Pol said.

He nodded, then returned his attention to his controls. It was still hard for him to accept that Captain T'Pol was leaving, and even harder to imagine _Chosin_ without her. Hardest of all was forgiving the andies for taking his Captain away.

Yeah, sure, he understood that all Andorians weren't responsible. It was that bastard Shalin, not the Imperial Guard. Andie guardsmen were probably as outraged as he was at Shalin's disgraceful act. At least he _hoped_ they were. Still, it was going to be very hard not to blame them, especially when they copped one of those sanctimoniously superior attitudes that the andies seemed to specialize in.

But he had promised Khart-lan that he wouldn't kick any more blue butts, and he sure as hell wasn't going to renege on a promise to _her_. No way.

Damn, he was going to miss her.

As Starbase Seven loomed closer, Trinh devoted half his attention to the routine docking maneuver. Even half his attention was overkill; docking a shuttlepod was an evolution he could have done in his sleep. The other half of his brain was busy imagining Chancellor Shalin in a variety of sleeper holds and joint locks. The more painful, the better.

The docking light flashed green, indicating the locking mechanism had an air-tight seal, and he quickly ran through the power-down sequence. "Here we are," he announced. Unnecessarily; it seemed. Khart-lan and Chief were already standing and moving toward the door.

Trinh followed them as unobtrusively as possible. He was afraid if they noticed him they might make him wait in the shuttlepod, and no way did he want to be stuck waiting. He let them get a few paces ahead, then quietly followed them down the corridor.

#####

**Andorian quarters, Starbase Seven, Lalande III, 10 Mar 2159**

Special Agent Thaleen of the Imperial Investigative Office sipped a small glass of chalea juice while he perused Andorian news feeds on the tiny monitor in his room. His accommodations on Starbase Seven were small and spartan, a fact of which he heartily approved. He had no use for unnecessary comforts, and he grimaced with distaste as he recalled a recent sojourn on a Tellarite station filled with ostentatious luxuries of the most decadent sort. He could muster little respect for Tellarites. They were soft, self-absorbed, and untrustworthy. Even so, they were preferable to these humans, a subservient species that seemed content to lick the boots of their Vulcan masters, as they had for nearly a hundred years.

His antenna twitched in irritation. He was wasting his time here. His orders were as clear as they were simple. Travel to Lalande III, take Commander T'Pol into custody, and return with her to Andoria. Except that it was never going to happen. The human lackeys would never surrender one of their Vulcan masters.

He was restless and not a little annoyed by his enforced idleness. Had he not pointed out the futility of this mission to his superiors? Had he not proposed a plan that would have prevented this impasse? All he asked for was a shuttle, a squad of the elite Black Guard, and thirty minutes of time, after which the criminal T'Pol would have been either dead or on her way to face Andorian justice. It could not be any simpler.

His plan had received the enthusiastic support of his superiors at the Investigative Office, but had been rejected by the overly-cautious bureaucrats at the Foreign Office. Sometimes he wondered just who's side _they_ were on.

The small monitor chimed with an incoming call. "Thaleen," he responded brusquely.

It was the enlisted clerk manning the front desk, and he seemed greatly agitated. "Sir, Lieutenant Kavvel asks that you come out here as soon as you are able. Commander T'Pol is in the front office."

"Commander T'Pol? The Vulcan? Are you certain?"

"Yes sir. It's _her_."

"Tell the Lieutenant I'm on my way." He broke the connection and took a moment to assess the situation. Apparently the humans were handing her over. Very interesting; it seemed there was a threshold of Vulcan arrogance beyond which even humans could not stomach.

He went to his travel bag beside the bed and took out a small universal translator, which he clipped to his shirt. Then he retrieved his service pistol, checking the charge and settings with the ease of long practice before sliding it into his coat pocket. A set of restraints went into another pocket. Finally he pulled out a small hand-stunner and regarded it thoughtfully. Since there was no stun setting on his service pistol, this would be his only option for applying non-lethal force.

He placed it back in the bag. Some cases did not call for a stunner, and this was one of them. If the Vulcan ran, she would end up dead, with a smoking, blackened cavity in her back. Just like that cowardly deserter from the Imperial Guard he had recently tracked down.

He rather hoped she _would_ try to run.

Thaleen left his room and made his way to the front office. When he entered the room, Lieutenant Kavvel and the desk clerk were on one side, while two human males and a Vulcan female-all in Starfleet uniforms-were on the other side. They faced each other with wary expressions.

The Vulcan female was unmistakably Commander T'Pol. She was not in restraints, but he would see to THAT oversight shortly. First, there was a small matter of protocol he needed to get out of the way. "You are Commander T'Pol?" he asked as he approached her.

"I am."

That was all he needed to hear. He grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around and pushing her against the bulkhead with more force than was required. He pulled the restraints from his pocket and was about to apply them to her wrists when his legs were suddenly and unexpectedly swept out from under him. He was thrown to the deck with shocking violence.

Thaleen attempted to rise, but a sharp pain in his shoulder elicited an involuntary gasp. His right arm had been twisted into an unnatural position behind his back, while a human forearm applied pressure across his throat, making it difficult to draw a breath. A voice close to his ear spoke to him in an incomprehensible human dialect, and while he couldn't understand the words, there was no mistaking their cold menace.

His universal translator provided an interpretation: "That's MY Captain, you piece of shit, so listen very, very carefully. If she's harmed in any way while in your custody, I will hunt you down, and I will kill you. And if something happens to me, there are sixty-eight others on _Chosin_ who will finish the job. Do you understand... _Special Agent Thaleen_?"

The pressure on his throat eased just enough for him to gasp out a reply, "Yes."

The human released him and Thaleen climbed to his feet, quivering with rage. His hand hovered over the pocket containing his pistol, but before he could employ it he was distracted by Commander T'Pol, speaking in unaccented Andorian. "Agent Thaleen, you may apply your restraints now, if you so desire." She had extended her hands toward him, palms up.

With great effort he turned away from the bellicose human. His first duty was to take the Vulcan prisoner into custody. He reached down and retrieved the restraints from the deck where he had dropped them.

He quickly had the prisoner restrained, then he led her toward the door with far more gentleness than was his norm-he was very much aware of the stocky human glaring at him from a few short steps away.

Once the door had closed behind him he relaxed somewhat, but the incident still galled him. The human had attacked without warning or provocation, interfering with a Special Agent of the Imperial Investigative Office in the performance of his duties. In Andorian space he would have been justified in shooting him. Here, of course, he had no jurisdiction, although the temptation to draw his weapon had been almost irresistible, so great was his anger.

The short journey to the holding cell was made in silence, without the pushing, shoving and verbal taunts he would normally have enjoyed. Now that they were away from her protector, he could have easily exacted his revenge for the humiliation he had suffered, but he did not. It would have been obvious to them both that he was retaliating against a helpless prisoner, and that would have made him appear... petty. Why he should care what those calm, Vulcan eyes thought of him, he could not say. Perhaps tomorrow this strange reluctance would be gone, and he could enjoy the fruits of his police work in his customary manner.

They arrived at the holding cell and he pushed her inside, then closed the door and checked the lock. He briefly considered returning to the front office to confront the human who had attacked him, but he thought better of it. Now that he had his prisoner, he needed to arrange for transportation to Andoria. The Letter of Authorization he carried was signed by Chancellor Shalin himself, and it gave him the authority to commandeer any available Andorian vessel. There were several squadrons of Imperial Guard warships to choose from; all he had to do was find a ship that was ready to leave immediately.

This time tomorrow, he would be on his way back to Andoria with his prisoner in hand.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Lalande III, 10 Mar 2159**

Trip was going over work schedules with the Starbase Maintenance Supervisor when he felt a familiar presence in his mind. *Trip...*

*Go ahead, darling.*

*It is done.*

He had thought himself prepared for this moment, but at her words a cold chill seized his heart. He quickly shook off the feeling; she needed him to be strong. *Just be careful, T'Pol. I want you back in one piece.*

*You be careful also, my love.*

*I will.*

Trip took a moment to offer up a silent prayer: _God, get us both through this and bring her back safely to me._

While he prayed, he fervently hoped they had made the right decision.

**Continued in Chapter 3**


	3. Chapter 3

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol is tried in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**THREE**

**Andorian cruiser _Amarith_, Lalande III, 11 Mar 2159**

T'Pol looked straight ahead and waited patiently for the docking port to open. Not that she could do anything else-her arms were tightly shackled behind her back, and she was flanked by two Andorians. Agent Thaleen stood to her left, and a burly enlisted Guardsman from the Starbase to her right.

The port opened, and Thaleen started T'Pol moving forward with a rough shove to her back. She stumbled onto the ship, then Thaleen jerked her to a quick stop.

T'Pol firmly suppressed her annoyance and glanced about her. There were three Andorians waiting on the ship, a male wearing Captain's rank, a female Lieutenant, and a male crewman.. The Captain was scowling, as if greatly displeased.

Thaleen spoke first, introducing himself. "Captain Akani, I am Special Agent Thaleen of the Imperial Investigative Service." He indicated T'Pol, "This is the prisoner you have been directed to transport to Andoria. If you will escort us to your brig, I will secure the prisoner and we can depart immediately."

The Captain's scowl deepened. "Remove her restraints," he growled.

Thaleen looked confused, "Captain Akani, I do not-"

"Did you not hear me? I said remove her restraints. NOW."

Thaleen bristled. "She is _my_ prisoner. _I_ will decide when her restraints come off."

"And this is _my_ ship. You understand? If you do not wish to spend the voyage locked in _my_ brig, you will remove the restraints. Now, yes?"

"I will not! You are interfering with an Imperial Agent in the performance of his duties. I will have you-"

Captain Akani loudly addressed the officer next to him, "Lieutenant Nevya, place Agent Thaleen in the brig."

"Yes, Captain." The Lieutenant made a sharp motioned with her hand, and the crewman beside her produced a stunner. It was aimed directly at Thaleen.

"You will come with us to the brig," the Lieutenant said. She spoke in a calm, emotionless voice, and it was clear to T'Pol that she did not care whether Thaleen walked to the brig or was carried.

Evidently it was _not_ clear to Thaleen, for he sputtered with barely contained fury. "You... you cannot do this. I am-I will... I will have you relieved of your command for this!"

Captain Akani laughed harshly. "Yes, yes. I'm sure you will. How terrible for me, to be relieved of my command and sent back to Andoria. Yes, terrible that I might actually live to see the end of the war. To see my family again." His face took on a grim expression and his antenna flattened against his skull as he leaned in close to Thaleen. "For three years we have fought the Romulans. Three years! For three years, they have pushed us back. In that time I have lost fifteen of my crew. Fifteen. This squadron lost five ships. At Chi Eridani, we nearly lost the entire Coalition fleet. You hear me, yes? You understand? The entire _fleet_, down to the last ship; the last man. But we did not. No we did not, because of _her_." He gestured toward T'Pol, but his eyes remained fixed on Thaleen.

"She delayed the Romulan reserves. Yes, long enough for our fleet to withdraw. But it was at great cost to her own ship. Yes, great cost! I owe her my life and the lives of my crew. While she is on this ship, she will be my honored guest." He finished with a snarl, "Now remove her restraints!"

Thaleen flinched at Akani's vehement tone, then wordlessly unshackled T'Pol's wrists. He glared at Akani as he returned the restraints to his pocket.

Captain Akani returned Thaleen's glare with a smile. "Lieutenant, show Agent Thaleen to his quarters."

"Yes, Captain." She motioned again, and the crewman lowered his stunner. "This way, sir," she said to Thaleen, indicating he should follow her down the passageway. With a final, withering glare at Captain Akani, Thaleen stalked away. The crewman-sans stunner-fell in behind him.

Captain Akani turned to T'Pol. "I am sorry, Captain. Yes, very sorry. This is no way to repay a debt. No, not at all! Have you been injured?"

"No, I am fine. Thank you for asking."

"Then I will take you to your quarters, yes? So you may rest."

While Akani led her up several levels, T'Pol took the opportunity to study him more closely. In addition to his thickly accented Andorian, his skin was a paler shade of blue than the average for his species, indicating he was not from the main population centers of Andoria's north polar regions. She could not guess what region he did call home, having insufficient knowledge of their culture.

They went down a corridor lined with nondescript doors, which T'Pol presumed to be officer's quarters. Akani opened one of the doors, standing to one side so T'Pol could enter. "I hope these are adequate," he said. "If you need anything, you have only to ask."

She walked past him and surveyed her quarters. Though small and sparsely appointed, they were clean and comfortable. Certainly much better than the cold, hard cell she had been expecting. She turned to face Akani. "These are quite acceptable," she told him.

He turned to leave, pausing at the door, "Ahhh... Captain T'Pol, if you would not mind, I would be honored to have you dine with me this evening. Yes?"

T'Pol inclined her head, "The honor will be mine, Captain Akani."

He smiled, pleased by her acceptance. "Good. Good. I will send someone when it is time. Until then, please! Enjoy the hospitality of Imperial Guard Cruiser_ Amarith_." Akani pulled the door closed, leaving T'Pol alone with her thoughts.

She sat on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes. To all outward appearances, she might have been meditating, but she was not. There was no need for it. She had meditated last night in the holding cell on Starbase Seven, and she remained fully in control. Completely composed. Possessed of a tranquility one of her people might expect to find after meditating on the wind-swept peaks of Mount Seleya while the dawn broke over the rugged Vulcan desert.

She had been to Mount Seleya many times before, she recalled, most recently after her short-lived marriage to Koss. For two weeks she had breathed the thin, crisp air at the summit and surrendered herself to the desolate beauty of her home world. She had meditated with a desperate intensity, but the peace that she sought-the peace she now felt-had eluded her.

On reflection, it made no sense: She was bound for an uncertain future in unfriendly hands on Andoria, far from all that she cherished. Her adun was on a warship headed deep into enemy-controlled space on a mission to strike at the heart of the Romulan Empire, a mission fraught with peril. That any Vulcan could be at peace under these circumstances was remarkable, a feat worthy of a Kolinahr master, if not Surak himself. That it should be _her_ was astonishing.

_No_, she mused, _not astonishing. Astounding. Incredible. After Enterprise returned from the Expanse, I feared the damage done to me by the Pa'nar Syndrome and trellium-D was permanent. I feared I would never again be in control of my emotions, never again feel fully Vulcan. I was resigned to an existence of struggle and shame. Yet, against all odds, my fears did not come to pass_.

There was, of course, but a single reason for her unlikely deliverance. _Trip_.

Despite the many times she had hurt him, despite her efforts to remain aloof and distant, he had taken her into his human heart. Every day, in ways both large and small, he affirmed her great worth to him. She had been confused and he gave her reassurance. She had been frightened and he gave her comfort. She had been damaged, in her own eyes and the eyes of her people, and he gave her respect and dignity. But above all else he had given her his trust, utterly and completely, even though she had done nothing beforehand to earn it. Given her history with him, it was an act of supreme courage on his part. She vowed that she would never give him cause to regret his confidence.

_By any standard he is a worthy mate; far more worthy than I expected. Far more worthy than I deserve_.

_**Chosin**_**, Lalande III, 11 Mar 2159**

"She did WHAT?" Admiral Gardner's astonishment was plainly evident to Trip, even across the subspace link to the courier ship the Admiral and his entourage were taking back to Earth. Trip, at T'Pol's insistence, had delayed informing the Admiral until after she had left for Andoria. He had, in turn, delayed a little longer, mostly because he hadn't been looking forward to making this call.

"She turned herself over to the Andorians," Trip repeated.

Admiral Gardner opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again before any words could form. Trip waited patiently. _He seems to be taking the news better than I thought he would._

Gardner finally spoke. "Why in God's name would she do that?" he asked. He answered his own question. "Never mind, I know why. It's obvious in hindsight. Where is she now?"

"Aboard the Andorian cruiser _Amarith._ She left four hours ago."

"Four hours? Why am I just now hearing this?"

"She ordered me not to tell you until after she was gone. She thought you'd try to stop her."

Gardner's face hardened. "Dammit, Commander, you KNOW that wasn't a lawful order. Commander T'Pol deserted her post and you assisted her. That makes you an accessory."

"T'Pol is not a deserter," Trip said mildly. "Her intent is to return to Starfleet once she is released by Andoria. The worst you can charge her with is being absent without leave."

Gardner was silent for a moment as he tried to recall what Starfleet regulations had to say about desertion. It was an article he had never used or expected to use, and he could only presume that Trip had done his homework correctly. He vaguely recalled that a charge of desertion required an intent to never return. "Not desertion, then," he conceded, "but that still leaves absent without leave, missing ship's movement, willfully disobeying a superior officer, and conduct unbecoming of an officer. That's off the top of my head; there may well be others. And _you_ are an accessory to them all."

"Yes sir, I am," Trip agreed. "Do you intend to pursue charges?"

Gardner surprised him with a wry grin. "No. No, I don't. It would only make things worse, and I seem to recall playing fast and loose with a few regulations myself, when I ordered _Chosin_ to Eta Corvi." The grin faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "Besides, I think you've punished yourselves far more effectively than Starfleet ever could. I wonder if you fully realize what you've done?"

"You mean other than keeping the war effort from being derailed and saving thousands of lives? I suppose you could add saving _your_ career, and saving the President and Parliament from some pretty nasty political consequences."

"All that presumes Chancellor Shalin is not bluffing," Gardner pointed out.

"He's not, sir. His only surviving son was murdered and he believes T'Pol had a hand in it. His skewed perception of Andorian honor demands that he not back down. You're not the only one willing to put your career on the line over a matter of principle, Admiral." Trip paused, then quietly added, "By the way, thank you for that. It meant a great deal to us both."

"Her extradition was something I couldn't allow. Not when I had the power to prevent it."

"And unnecessary casualties are something T'Pol can't allow," Trip stated. "Not when she has the power to prevent them."

Gardner slowly nodded. "I certainly understand that. I even admire it. I'm just afraid you aren't aware of the potential dangers she faces as a Vulcan in Andorian custody." Gardner hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "I spoke with Sub-Commander Kolna on our way there from Earth. He told me some things about conditions in Andorian prisons that lead me to believe Commander T'Pol may be at grave risk."

"I assure you Admiral, we're both very much aware of that information."

"And you STILL let her go?"

"Sorry, Admiral. I happen to agree with her regarding the importance of this. But despite what Sub-Commander Kolna said, she's not in any immediate danger."

Gardner seemed skeptical. "Are you certain? Kolna painted a pretty grim picture. And Commander T'Pol is Vulcan, after all."

"Very true, sir. But T'Pol is, um, a special case, as Vulcans go."

"How so?"

Trip offered the Admiral a quick overview of how their bond served to protect T'Pol from the worst privations of Andorian prison. Gardner seemed at once relieved and intrigued by what he had learned.

"So, if I understand correctly, this bond means the two of you are are somehow... connected? All the time?" Gardner asked after Trip's rather sketchy explanation.

"Yes sir." Trip answered.

"You're connected right now?"

"Yes sir."

"What... what is it like? If you don't mind my asking?"

"Not at all, sir. Normally I don't even notice it. But when one of us wants the other's attention, it's like we hear the other talking. Like a voice in our heads."

"You can talk to T'Pol now? While she's on the Andorian ship?"

"Yes sir. Loud and clear."

Gardner shook his head. "Incredible."

"Yes sir."

"And you are convinced that T'Pol is in no real danger?"

"I am. It won't be pleasant, but she'll survive. She's tough as nails."

Gardner took note of the great pride and admiration in Trip's voice. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that," he said. "It's one less thing I need to worry about. Still, there are other factors to be considered. The affect of this on Starfleet can't be ignored."

"Sir?"

"Starfleet morale. What do you suppose it will do to morale when word gets out that Commander T'Pol is in Andorian custody? And word _will_ get out. What do you suppose will happen to working relations between Human and Andorian forces?"

"As it happens, Admiral, we considered that. Here, watch this..." Trip streamed the recording of T'Pol's farewell to her crew across the subspace channel.

Admiral Gardner was momentarily silent while he digested what he had seen. "Well. That... that packs quite a punch."

"Yes sir. I think if we disseminate it throughout Starfleet, it should have a calming effect on any hotheads."

"I certainly hope so," Gardner remarked. "In any event, the two of you have left me with little choice in the matter."

"Sorry sir. It's just that T'Pol is very, uh, _thorough_ when she puts a plan together. She leaves nothing to chance."

Gardner actually smiled at that. "Since I've been presented with a fait accompli, I suppose I should ask how I can help move this along. Do you need anything from me?"

"Yes sir. As _Chosin's_ First Officer, I'm in command while the Captain's absent. I need orders making it permanent. Unless you have another Captain in mind?"

"No. The job is yours. You'll have official orders within the hour."

Trip nodded. "I'd also like promotions for Lieutenant Graham and Lieutenant Saracco. They'll be taking over as First Officer and Chief Engineer, respectively."

"Forward the requests to me and I'll have them expedited."

"Yes sir. One last question: You ordered _Chosin_ to Eta Corvi. Do you wish to reconsider those orders in light of, uh, recent developments? If not, I'm ready to depart immediately.

"No change. In fact, I'm moving up the timetable for the attack on Rho Virginis. We have intelligence that the Romulans are redeploying the bulk of their forces to Lanus. They appear to be planning an all-or-nothing offensive directed at Lalande III. There's even a possibility they might try to leapfrog Lalande and target Earth directly. I want to beat them to the punch. Before they can launch their attack, I want their logistic bases on Rho Virginis destroyed and a Coalition force within striking distance of the Romulan home world."

"In that case, _Chosin_ will break orbit today, sir." Trip reflected that Admiral Gardner was taking a pretty big gamble by committing his fleets to Romulan space while Earth was directly threatened for the first time. _Still, he doesn't have many options. We can't stop the Romulans in a toe-to-toe fight, so we have to use an oblique approach. I'm just glad I'm not the one who has to give the order._

Gardner seem pleased that _Chosin_ was ready to depart. "Very well. And let me be the first to wish you good luck in your new command, _Captain_ Tucker."

"Thank you, Admiral. Uh, if you don't mind, sir, I do have one more request..."

"Go ahead."

"Would it be possible to arrange for someone at our embassy on Andoria to sort of keep tabs on T'Pol after she arrives? And to make sure the Andorians _know_ we're keeping tabs?"

"I think that's the least we can do. I'll pass it on to the Foreign Minister for action. Is there anything else?"

"No sir. That's all."

The screen went blank as Gardner severed the connection, leaving Trip alone with his thoughts. He resisted the urge to contact T'Pol-she would most assuredly not see the need for a mental status check every fifteen minutes. Still, it was comforting to know she was only a thought away, and he took a moment to reflect on the nature of their improbable relationship.

Improbable? Many would have called it impossible: a strong and stable union between Human and Vulcan. Between emotion and logic. Oil and water. Night and day.

Yet here they were, living proof that it _could_ happen.

He was under no misconception that the benefits of their union were shared equally. T'Pol certainly enjoyed his assistance in meditating, but in all other respects the benefits flowed disproportionately to him. She simply did not need him with the same intensity that he needed her. Yet despite this great disparity in need, she still graced him with her esteem. Her affection. Yes, he would even say her love.

But of all her gifts, the most precious to him was her respect. Respect was not something a Vulcan bestowed lightly. It had to be earned. That such a strong, capable, accomplished, and supremely intelligent person as T'Pol should find reason to respect _him_ was simply incredible. He vowed he would never willingly do anything to lose that respect.

_By any standard she is a worthy mate; far more worthy than I expected. Far more worthy than I deserve_.

_**Enterprise**_**, Eta Corvi, 11 Mar 2159**

"You wanted to see me, Admiral?"

"Yes, Jon." Admiral Chu looked up from the large display console in the middle of the flag bridge, and waved him over.

Archer joined him at the console, which was a larger version of the one in the situation room adjoining the bridge, and he glanced curiously at the display. It showed the Region of space around Rho Virginis, including Eta Corvi and Zeta Trianguli, along with the disposition of Coalition and Romulan forces.

"Another strategy session?" Archer asked. Admiral Chu frequently used Archer as a sounding board for his operation plans, bouncing ideas off him and soliciting his opinion.

"No, not this time," Chu replied. "I've had my fill of strategy. Admiral Castaneda and his staff just left a few minutes ago. It took them nearly four hours to brief me on the situation here." Admiral Castaneda was Third Fleet's Commander, and had been the Commander of Coalition forces in the Rho Virginis sector until Admiral Chu's arrival yesterday. Chu, by virtue of Second Fleet's exemplary record opposing the main Romulan attack, had been given overall command by Admiral Gardner. Castenada's performance had been adequate, but up until now the Coalition offensives along the Eta Corvi and Zeta Triangulum lines of advance had been relatively quiet backwaters, when compared to the major fighting elsewhere. That was clearly about to change, as the bulk of Coalition forces were committed to an all-out attack on Rho Virginis.

"Looks like all the pieces are falling into place," Archer observed, glancing at the console. "The last of Second Fleet's ships have left Lalande III. They should be here early next week."

"Yes," Chu agreed. "Unfortunately, that will be too late. The timetable for the attack has been moved up. They won't get here in time."

"Really?" Archer frowned as he leaned in closer to study the display, "That's sixteen ships, including a couple of cruisers. And _Chosin_."

"Believe me, I know. But Joint Coalition Command wants Rho Virginis taken out before the rommies launch _their_ next offensive. You can consider this a heads-up; I'll be sending out a new op-order tonight. We're moving against Rho Virginis within the next two days."

"You're certainly not wasting any time, Admiral."

Chu smiled without mirth. "There's no time to waste," he said. "At this point, the best way for us to protect Earth is to directly threaten Romulus. If we don't take Rho Virginis..." Chu's voice trailed off, leaving unspoken the dire consequences of failure. Not that Archer needed to hear them; he was fully aware of those consequences.

Quite simply, failure was not an option.

"Maybe we should delay the attack until all our ships are here," Archer suggested.

Chu shook his head. "Not an option. Here, look at this..." Chu adjusted the display, zooming in on the Rho Virginis system. "Notice anything?"

"Where are all their ships?" Archer asked. Given the importance of Rho Virginis to the Romulan war effort, it seemed very lightly defended. The Coalition's attacking forces would meet, at most, an equal number of defenders. _Those would be the best odds we've ever faced in this war, _Archer reflected.

"They're consolidating all their forces on Lanus for a big push on Lalande III. Or Earth. It seems that our opsec measures have completely fooled them. They don't realize that we've redeployed two whole fleets into this sector, right under their noses."

Archer nodded his understanding. "And by the time they do, it will be too late. We'll hold Rho Virg, effectively cutting them off from their source of supplies and maintenance."

"And we'll be poised to strike at the Romulan home system."

"Even so, they can still hurt us if they attack Earth. They'll have an overwhelming advantage in numbers."

"Yes, they can hurt us. But even with their numerical advantage, they'll take a pounding. Don't forget all the fixed defenses we've built up in the Sol system. The orbital forts and Starbases. The mine fields. It won't be a walk in the park for the Romulans. And after the fighting is over, they will get no resupply. No torpedo reloads. Not a fun position to be in when you're deep in enemy space."

Archer frowned. "That sounds nothing like the Romulans _I've_ been fighting. Ever since their defeat at the first battle of Lanus, they've been very careful to protect their logistic tail. Are you certain we're not overlooking something?"

Chu shrugged. "I suppose it's possible, but we can't find anything, and the Romulan's have never been very good at hiding their intentions. Hell, they've never really _needed_ to. Coalition intelligence seems to think that the Romulans have changed Commanders. It's the one theory that seems to best explain their sudden change in strategy."

"I hope you're right, Admiral. I think I'm going to like this new leader a lot more than the old one."

"That makes two of us," Chu agreed, "but enough about strategy, that's not why I called you here."

Archer looked up from the display with a wary expression. Something in Chu's voice told him he wasn't going to like what was coming.

"I need a new Captain for the USS _Tiger_. She's a _Panther_-class cruiser. Her CO, Commander Puckett, had a medical emergency and has been evacuated to the rear."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Archer said. "I'm sure his FO will do a magnificent job replacing him," he added hopefully.

"_Tiger's_ First Officer is not ready for command," Chu said. "On the other hand, yours is."

_Damn. He wants Malcolm_. "Is there no one else, sir?"

"You know the answer to that, Jon."

He did indeed. "Yes sir. I hope he's at least going to get a promotion out of this? I know he hasn't been a Lieutenant Commander very long, but still..."

"Of course. He'll be CO of a Heavy Cruiser. I'll have orders promoting him to Commander cut immediately."

"Thank you, sir. I'll tell him tonight."

Chu nodded. "This means you'll need another FO. Is Lieutenant Sato up for the job? If not, I can find you someone else."

Archer considered that. Was Hoshi ready? No, of course not. Just as she wasn't ready for any of the other duties that were thrust upon her since that day she first reported aboard, a naive, idealistic Ensign. But she would somehow find a way to get the job done. Just as she always had before.

"Lieutenant Sato is up for the job, sir."

"Good. I'll have promotion orders cut for her as well. Can't very well have a Lieutenant in the First Officer's slot, now can we? Especially on Second Fleet's flagship."

"No sir. Anything else, Admiral?"

"No, that's all."

Archer started to leave, then turned back, "You know sir, when Malcolm leaves, Hoshi will be the last of my original staff."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry Jon. They were an exceptional lot."

"Yes. Yes, they were. I'd kind of been holding out hope that after the war, I might get the old crew back together. Doesn't look like that's going to happen now."

Chu was silent, a look of sympathy on his face.

Archer gazed around the flag bridge. "This used to be the astrophysics lab. I'd come down here after hours if I was looking for Commander T'Pol. She'd be right over there, working on her micro-singularity research. Sometimes Commander Tucker would be here helping her." Archer chuckled softly, "At least that's what he claimed he was doing. It sounded more like arguing, to me."

"After the war, this will be an astrophysics lab once more," Chu said. "Starfleet can get back to its primary mission of exploring."

"Do you really think Starfleet can go back to the way it was? Before the Xindi and the Romulans? With the Klingons and Orions and God knows who else out there? Sorry, Admiral, but I don't think exploring will ever be Starfleet's primary mission again."

Chu nodded glumly. "No, you're right. I guess it's true what they say; you can't go home again."

A waiting crewman, PADD in hand, caught Chu's attention. Archer turned to leave, but was only halfway to the door when Chu called him back. "Jon."

At the expression on Chu's face, Archer steeled himself for more bad news.

Chu looked up from the PADD the crewman had handed him. "It's from Admiral Gardner. Just came in on the all-forces channel, widest distribution. Commander T'Pol has turned herself over to the Andorians."

Archer's heart sank. _T'Pol._

Chu continued, "There's an attached video that Gardner wants everyone to see..."

_**Amarith**_**, enroute to Andoria, 11 Mar 2159**

Captain Akani beamed broadly as T'Pol entered his mess area. "Ah, Captain T'Pol. Come! Sit!" With sweeping gestures, he ushered her into the room and to a spot at his table. There were only two place settings, so T'Pol presumed no one else would be joining them.

"Thank you, Sergeant Barriv," Akani said, dismissing the Guardsman who had escorted T'Pol from her room to the Captain's mess.

"All is well with your quarters, yes?" he asked, after she had been seated.

"Yes. They are very comfortable. I must thank you; I was prepared for far worse."

Akani's jovial expression faded. "Yes. Yes. I'm sure you were. But not on my ship. Never on my ship."

He beckoned to a side door, and an enlisted Andorian scurried to his side. "Captain T'Pol, this is my steward, Vran. Please! Tell him what you desire to eat."

"Anything without meat will be adequate," she replied. "But my rank is Commander. I am no longer Captain of a ship."

"Yes, yes. Of course. _Commander_ T'Pol." He turned to his steward, "There, you heard her! Bring the vegetable stew and fresh bread. I'll have the same. And Ale, lots of Ale!"

"I usually drink water," T'Pol said. At Akani's crestfallen look, she amended her statement, "But in this case I will join you in a glass."

Akani smiled, and shooed his Steward away. "We have departed for Andoria," he told her. "I am sorry to say we are traveling _very_ slowly," his body language suggested he was anything but sorry. "My Engineer says there are terrible problems with the warp drive. Terrible! It will be three weeks before we arrive."

T'Pol understood that he was deliberately delaying her delivery to Andoria. "Captain Akani... Are you sure that is wise? There are powerful groups on Andoria awaiting my arrival. I do not wish to cause you trouble; you have already made an enemy of Special Agent Thaleen. I believe he will attempt to retaliate."

"Faaah! Let him try. Let them all try. They can take my career but they cannot take my honor." He looked directly at T'Pol, "You know that. Honor compels me to do this, just as honor compels you to do what you do. Oh, yes. I know what you do! You are Vulcan, but you have an Andorian's heart. An Andorian's honor!"

"As do many of my people." T'Pol pointed out.

"Yes. Such I have learned during the war," Akani agreed. "Such I have learned," he repeated, in a softer, more reflective tone.

Vran returned, carrying a flask of Ale and two glasses. He set a glass in front of T'Pol and filled it with blue liquid, then did the same for Akani. Placing the flask on the table, he retreated from the room as silently as he'd entered.

Akani picked up his glass and gazed appreciatively at its contents. "This is Endilev ale, from the Bishee region of the equatorial plains. The finest ales come from there, you know. They say it is something in the water that runs off the glaciers. But drink! Enjoy!"

He watched as T'Pol took a small sip, then followed suit. "You like it?"

It was strong, but manageable. Certainly not as strong as the Kentucky bourbon Captain Archer favored. "Yes," she lied. She took another sip under Akani's watchful gaze, and he beamed with approval.

Akani took a large gulp from his glass, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It must have been a challenge, yes? A challenge for someone of your race to command a ship of Humans." he observed.

"Indeed it was. They were constantly surprising me."

Akani's booming laugh filled the room. "Yes, they are full of surprises, these Humans. Who could have imagined they would be so remarkably adept at waging war? Most Andorians, including me, thought them weak, with all their talk of peace and compromise and negotiation. Yes, and the way they meekly submitted to your Vulcan occupation. Weak? We could not have been more wrong." He took another large drink and reached for the flask, intent on refilling his glass.

T'Pol elected not to challenge his remark about the Vulcan 'occupation'. She took another small sip of ale, enjoying the warmth that spread from her throat to her stomach.

"You realize, Commander, how very fortunate we are that the Romulans attacked Earth's colonies first?" Akani said, after he had refilled his glass.

"How is that fortunate?"

Akani glanced around in a conspiratorial manner. When he spoke again, it was in a lower voice, despite the fact that no one else was in the room, "Understand, I could not say this to another Andorian-our martial pride runs deep, yes, deep to our very bones-but I do think the Coalition would not have survived with an Andorian heading the Joint Command. Or a Vulcan. Or a Tellarite. Only Humans have shown the ingenuity and... and the _deviousness_ to defeat the Romulans. Yes? If the Romulans had attacked Vulcan or Andoria first, would we have let the Humans have operational control of our forces? No! Andoria would not have allowed such a thing. Nor Vulcan. No, it was our great fortune that Romulus' attack was directed at Earth. It gave the Humans a reason to demand control of our military forces. It may have saved us all."

"I believe you are correct," T'Pol agreed.

"Yes," Akani chuckled. "I believe I am. Please! Do not tell my wife. She still clings to the belief that I am never correct."

"I suspect you have given her many valid reasons for that belief," T'Pol suggested.

Akani's booming laughter rang forth a second time. "Commander T'Pol, that was humor! Most remarkable, for a Vulcan. Is this something you have learned from the Humans?"

T'Pol found herself warming to the exuberant Andorian. "Indeed. It is difficult to live among Humans without being affected by them."

"I am sure," Akani said, "especially such exceptional Humans as are on _Chosin_. Did Starfleet assign them to you because you are Vulcan? And given your great successes, why are there not more Vulcan Captains in Starfleet?"

"Captain Akani, Do you think my crew is in some way elite because I am Vulcan?"

"Are they not?"

"Actually, they are completely ordinary for their species. Most of them enlisted following the Romulan attacks, and had no designs on military service prior to that. They have received the standard sixteen weeks of basic Starfleet training, followed by specialty schools that range from one to six months. Nothing more."

"Can this be true?" Akani seemed incredulous, for reasons that T'Pol could well understand. Members of the Imperial Guard typically began their training as young children, and the training became more rigorous as they progressed. No other calling in Andorian society was as respected, save perhaps for the clergy.

"It is true," T'Pol said. "When I first assumed command, I was struck by their great youth and inexperience. Many of my crew were only seventeen years old. In human terms, that is not yet considered adult."

"You had children on your crew? _Children?_ Yet you have destroyed forty-four Romulan vessels?" Clearly Akani had envisioned _Chosin_ to be manned by a hand-picked crew of experienced warriors, and he was now having difficulty confronting the reality. "Is this more Vulcan humor at my expense?"

"No, I am quite serious. Except for a handful of us, none of _Chosin's_ crew had ever served on a ship before."

"Then _Chosin's_ successes are entirely your own!"

T'Pol _knew_ that wasn't the case. "No, not mine. I believe my crew's youth actually became an asset. What they lacked in experience they made up for with their great enthusiasm. When given a task or a mission, they simply did it, never realizing that someone with experience would have considered what they did impossible."

"Impossible? Yes! That is the exact word I would use for your _Chosin's_ accomplishments. Still, I suspect you are being modest. Yes, modest! I am sure as their Captain, you contributed greatly to their successes. I am sure you possess great insights into these humans. I find them to be a perplexing species."

T'Pol could not agree more. _Perplexing, and often frustrating_. "Indeed they are," she replied. "Despite my close contact with humans, I do not always understand them. I have come to believe that I never will. Not completely."

While Akani pondered T'Pol's statement, Vran entered the room with a large tray bearing a steaming tureen of stew and a square loaf of unsliced bread. Judging by the pleasant aroma, the bread had just come from the oven.

"Ah, Very good, Vran, very good. Please, serve our guest first." Akani rubbed his hands in anticipation.

Vran ladled the vegetable stew, first into T'Pol's bowl, then Akani's. By Vulcan standards the meal was perfectly acceptable, even sumptuous. By Andorian standards it was rather meager. "Captain Akani, you need not restrict your diet on my account. It will not offended me if you wish to eat meat. Remember, I have served among humans for the past eight years."

"Well, that is good! Yes, good news. I was prepared for three weeks of meatless dinners." Akani laughed, "A small price to pay to spend time with the greatest of all Coalition Captains. By the time we get to Andoria, I will know all of your secrets. Yes, ALL of them!"

"I will tell you what I can," T'Pol said. "I hope you are not disappointed."

"I do not believe I will be," Akani said. "No, I am sure of it! I will not be disappointed."

**Andorian hospital ship **_**Challorn**_**, enroute to Andoria, 11 Mar 2159**

Shran lay on the bed in the medical ward and fumed. He felt... useless. He _was_ useless, and he hated it. He should have been striding the bridge of his battle cruiser, preparing for the eminent attack on Rho Virginis. Instead he was on a hospital ship bound for Andoria. As a _casualty_. Useless.

Part of him knew he should be grateful that he was alive. Half his crew had died last month in the fighting to repulse the Romulan offensive to reclaim the Zeta Trianguli system. Of the half that survived, many were injured. Some were severely injured, to the point they would never again be fit to serve in the Imperial Guard. Yes, he should feel grateful that his wounds were healing; grateful that when he returned to Andoria he would be given another command. Another opportunity to exact vengeance against the Romulans for what they had done.

_I have lost two ships to the Romulans. First Kumari, now Klazhri. They will pay for that_, he vowed. _They WILL pay_.

"Captain Shran."

Shran looked up to see his Executive Officer hobbling toward him. _Former Executive Officer, since the destruction of Klazhri._ he amended, _As I am now a former Commanding Officer_. "Yes, Thaval."

"Did you not know Captain T'Pol before the war? The Vulcan officer commanding _Chosin_?"

"T'Pol? Yes, I knew her. She was _Enterprise's_ Executive Officer at the time." _She is also my favorite green-blood_, he mused, although that put her on a VERY short list, containing only T'Pol and Ambassador Soval.

Shran waited while Commander Thaval made his way down the rows of beds, clearly favoring his injured leg. _At least he is ambulatory_, Shran reflected, _not bound to one of these Larashkail-forsaken medical beds. I envy that mobility_. The doctors had advised Shran he would be ready to try walking in another couple of days. It was an event he greatly anticipated.

"Why do you ask about Captain T'Pol?" Shran asked, once Thaval had reached his bed-side.

"There is news of her." He handed Shran a PADD, then waited patiently while Shran read its contents.

Shran's foul mood grew blacker as he read. "This... this is a dark day. I have always been proud of my race, but today I am ashamed. Chancellor Shalin has brought dishonor on us all."

"Dishonor?" Thaval fought to contain his surprise. "Captain T'Pol disobeyed her orders and refused to aid a civilian freighter. An _Andorian_ freighter. How is it dishonorable to seek justice for her actions?"

"This is not justice, this is revenge. You do not know Captain T'Pol as I do. She bears no ill will towards Andorians. She was the one who personally handed me scans of the listening post at P'Jem, scans that showed Vulcans-_her_ people-were engaged in treaty violations. Yes, and how many Imperial Guard vessels have been saved since the war started because of her actions? More than a few. No, Thaval, this is most certainly _not_ justice."

Thaval did not seem convinced. "She is Vulcan," he stated flatly, as if that settled the matter.

Shran groaned, but not because his wounds pained him. It was times like this he really missed Talas, his former Tactical Officer on _Kumari_, also his confidant and sometime lover. She may have been as stubborn as Thaval, but her stubbornness was tempered by an imaginative streak that the stolid Commander Thaval lacked. "Thaval, did you view the video attached to this message? Captain T'Pol addressing her crew?"

"Yes, I did."

"But do you understand what it means? The humans refused to extradite her, so Captain T'Pol voluntarily turned herself in. She did so on her own initiative, placing herself in jeopardy to save the Coalition from Shalin's misguided threat. Would you have done the same? Would you have gone to a Vulcan prison to keep the Coalition from fracturing?"

"If I had committed the same crimes, Chancellor Shalin would have had no choice but to hand me over, as the Humans should have." Thalin stated. Shran groaned again, and a look of concern flitted across Thaval's face.

_Thaval is an able second in command_, Shran thought, _but he sees the world in such simplistic terms. All is black or white. Right or wrong. He truly cannot appreciate the great courage required by T'Pol's act, or the honor and respect she is due._

Shran handed the PADD back to Thaval. "Where is she now?" he asked.

"She is on the cruiser _Amarith_, bound for Andoria.

"_Amarith_? That's Captain Akani's ship."

"Yes," Thaval answered. "Do you know him?"

"We were both in the same platoon during our year of ground combat training. We became good friends, even though he's from the equatorial glacial swamps. Not many from that region make it into the Imperial Guard, much less to command of a ship." Shran struggled to sit up, and Thaval hastened to assist him.

"I want to talk with him. Make arrangements with the Comm Center for a subspace call to _Amarith,_ then tell my doctors you are taking me to use the terminal in your quarters. They will try to stop you, but do not let them! Now, go."

He watched as Thaval hobbled toward the door, determination etched on his face. Shran had no doubt the single-minded officer would get him past his medical guardians. He was nothing if not persistent.

#####

The subspace call went through, and Captain Akani's expressive features filled the screen. "Shran. It is good to see you. Very good!"

"And it's good to see you, Akani. Tell me, are you still the same crude, naive, warm-weather rustic I knew in ground training?"

"No, no, absolutely not. I am worse, now. Yes, very much worse! But you, you are still the same arrogant, know-everything, ice-bound snob. Oh, yes! Do not try to hide it, I can tell." Akani's loud, obnoxious laughter brought back vivid memories of the many nights they had shared bottles of ale while they swapped outrageous stories of misspent youth.

"You have found me out, old friend." Shran said, laughing. It was the first time he had laughed since _Klazhri_ was destroyed.

"So, Shran. You are well? Your injuries are healing? I heard of your loss. Of _Klazhri_, and your crew. A terrible thing."

Shran's smile faded. "Yes. I am well. I will even get another ship, another battle cruiser. My third. Who could have imagined it, Akani? It seems they are building ships now faster than they can train Captains."

"It is good they give you another ship. You were born to Command. You are good; very nearly as good as me. Oh yes, very nearly!"

Shran could not help but to chuckle, "And you, my friend, are still completely delusional. But I did not call to trade barbs with you. Tell me, how is Captain T'Pol? Has she... has she been hurt? Is she safe?"

"No, not hurt. Not at all. She is very much safe, I can assure you."

"I am pleased to hear that. This may surprise you, Akani, but I... I consider Captain T'Pol to be a friend. She is only one of two Vulcans I hold in such regard. I am calling to ask if you would look after her while she is aboard your ship. Do what you can to keep her safe. Make her as comfortable as you can. I know it is asking a lot, but it would mean a great deal to me."

Akani burst into his trademark laugh, taking Shran completely by surprise. "I see! Oh yes, I do. Once more I find I am several steps ahead of you. Be at peace, Shran, for I have already done what you ask. Commander T'Pol is my guest on this ship. Yes, my honored guest. She is staying in officer quarters and is quite comfortable. She dines at my table, and we talk. We talk of many things. I can see why you would consider her a friend."

"I am... astonished," Shran admitted. "Do you... are you aware that you might bring down the wrath of some highly-placed people by assisting her?"

"Oh ho! You think me a feeble-minded simpleton, yes? Not so! I am very aware-Very!-of those who will disapprove of my actions. Oh, yes. But I find I do not care. No, not at all. You see, while you were fighting your tiny little battles in the Romulan salients, I was fighting against their main attacks." He paused, and his expression grew solemn. "I was at Chi Eridani, Shran. I owe Captain T'Pol a debt I can never fully repay."

"I understand," Shran said simply. "Please, give her a message from me. Tell her I am on my way to Andoria, and I will look her up when I get there. Tell her I will help her in any way I can."

"Yes, I will tell her. But you will have to wait for her, yes? You will get to Andoria first, for I am having terrible, terrible problems with my engines!"

Akani burst into laughter, leaving Shran completely bemused by the spectacle of a ship's captain seemingly delighted to be experiencing engine problems.

_**Chosin**_**, Enroute to Eta Corvi, 11 Mar 2159**

"Enter."

The door to the Captain's quarters opened and Trip looked up from his desk to see Chief Verley standing at the threshold, a suspiciously-shaped paper bag clutched in one hand. "Got a few minutes, Captain?"

"Hell no. Do you?"

"No. Not really." Verley grinned as he walked into the room, pulling a bottle of vodka from the bag.

Trip stood and pushed the desk chair toward Verley, then moved to sit on the bunk. "I suppose I can make an exception for you. Where did you manage to find _that_?"

"Partial payment from the Starbase Seven Supply Officer for a favor. We also got a couple of spare power capacitors out of the deal. Lieutenant Hoefler squealed like a girl when he saw them."

"You'd squeal too, if you'd ever had to rebuild a power cap with half its plates shorted out," Trip said with a chuckle.

Verley unscrewed the cap on the bottle of vodka, then looked around. "Got any glasses, Captain?"

Trip got up and rummaged through a cabinet above the bunk. There were two coffee mugs in his hand when he sat back down. He offered one to Verley, keeping the other for himself. "These will have to do."

Verley glanced at his mug and raised his eyebrows. "Physics is Phun?"

"I got that for T'Pol several Christmas's ago. She mentioned to me-more than once-how English spelling is highly illogical. I thought it might amuse her."

"Did it?"

"I think so. When we came here from _Enterprise_, that was one of the few personal items she brought along with her."

Verley nodded. He leaned over and poured from the bottle into Trip's mug, then his own. "Vodka's not my normal drink," he said, "but it's all I could get. Hope you don't mind."

Trip shrugged. "Beats water."

Verley lifted his mug, "To Captain T'Pol."

"T'Pol."

They drank, then sat in companionable silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

After several moments Verley spoke, "You know, the crew is taking this pretty hard. It's not an easy thing to lose a captain." He drained the remaining contents of his mug before continuing, "But we only lost a captain. _You_ lost your wife. That's gotta be even harder."

Trip gazed absently into his mug. "Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you. Except that's not exactly the way it is."

"I'm not following you, sir."

"Did you ever wonder how T'Pol always seemed to know what was happening in Engineering before anyone else?"

Verley nodded. "The entire crew wondered about that, not just me. That, and the way _you_ always seemed to know what was happening on the bridge. The rumor mill cranked out some pretty wild theories to explain it."

"It's simple, really. Me and T'Pol are... connected." Trip's hand made a vaguely circular motion in the vicinity of his head. "Mentally linked. We can talk, uh, communicate with each other, mind-to-mind."

Verley blinked. "It seems those wild theories weren't so wild after all," he said, thoughtfully. "I just assumed it was instinct. Like the way she always seemed to know what the rommies were going to do before they did it." He reached for the vodka bottle and splashed a little more into his mug.

Trip chuckled. "That rommie thing was just good old-fashioned Vulcan logic. By the way, T'Pol says to go easy on the vodka."

Verley looked startled, and Trip smirked. "What part of 'mentally linked' did you not understand?"

"You're talking to her _now_?"

Trip nodded. "Even when she's gone, neither of us is ever really alone. It's kind of nice, once you get used to it."

"Is- is everything alright? Is she okay?"

Trip paused, then said, "She says thank you, but you need not be concerned. She is being well-treated on the Andorian ship."

"That's good to hear. We're all worried about you, Khart-lan."

Trip noted with amusement that Verley was now addressing T'Pol directly, as if she were in the room. "Actually, she has more cause for worry than we do. She'll be safer where she's going than we'll be."

"That's probably true," Verley said. "As for this link you share, it certainly explains a lot. I've always wondered how a Vulcan could be so... so aware of all things human."

"Actually, it's got to the point where T'Pol needs very little guidance from me when it comes to interactions with humans," Trip said, a detectable trace of pride in his voice. "After eight years living and working alongside us, she's pretty much figured out what makes us tick."

"She would, at that," Verley agreed.

Trip chuckled, "Of course, every once in a while we still manage to throw her for a loop,. A couple of months ago, she heard two crewmen arguing over who would win in a fight between Spiderman and Batman."

Verley snorted. "Let me guess. Frederick and Garza?"

"The same." Trip confirmed.

"I guess the concept of superheroes would be difficult for a Vulcan to grasp."

Trip shook his head, "She knows who Spiderman and Batman are. What was difficult for her to grasp was why two seemingly sane humans would bother arguing over the capabilities of FICTIONAL characters. On Vulcan, that would be enough to get you committed to a mental institution. Well, the Vulcan equivalent, anyway."

Verley motioned toward Trip's mug with the bottle, a questioning look on his face.

Trip nodded, and extended the mug. "I guess one more wouldn't hurt."

"We haven't crossed our picket lines yet," Verley noted. "What could go wrong?"

"I hope you don't have cause to eat those words," Trip said, grinning.

"You and me both, sir." Verley said emphatically. He drained the last bit of liquid from his mug and set it firmly on the desk. It was time to get back to ship's business. "I talked to Lieutenant Walder before I came here. She said we've received promotion orders for Graham and Saracco from Starfleet. I think we should arrange a ceremony and throw a little party for them. Lord knows the crew could use a distraction."

"I agree. I'll have Lieutenant Westermeir set something up."

"Very good, sir. Anything for me?"

"Yes. Tomorrow I'm starting a full battery of combat simulations for me and the bridge crew. I want you to run them. I figure it's the best way to get everyone used to my command style."

"Yes sir. That's exactly how Captain T'Pol did it."

Trip grinned. "I know. It was her idea."

"I'll set something up tonight. I'll start you out easy and make them tougher over time."

"Don't make them too easy. I'm not a total novice at this, you know. And I _can_ consult with Starfleet's best tactician whenever I need to."

"I'll keep that in mind." Verley said.

"See you tomorrow, Chief."

"Yes sir. Good night, sir. And good night, Khart-lan." When Verley left the Captain's quarters, there was a distinct bounce to his step that had not been there when he arrived.

**_Enterprise_, Eta Corvi, 11 Mar 2159**

"You asked to see us, sir?"

"Yes. Have a seat." Archer waved Malcolm and Hoshi into the ready room and waited for them to get settled. "You heard about T'Pol?" he asked.

Hoshi nodded. Malcolm spoke for them both, "Yes sir, we heard." Their expressions couldn't have been more grim.

"I suppose we shouldn't be surprised," Archer remarked. "Isn't that just like T'Pol?"

"It is," Malcolm said, "but this time I think she's gone too far." The news of what T'Pol had done had hit Malcolm harder than most. His background with Section 31 gave him a much clearer idea of what was in store for T'Pol, and he was deeply worried for her.

"What do you mean, too far?" Archer asked, noting the lines of concern etched on Malcolm's face.

"I mean the Andorians are not noted for their compassionate treatment of Vulcan prisoners. I'm afraid T'Pol has endangered herself by her actions. I can't believe Trip agreed to this."

"You think she did this without Trip's approval?" Hoshi asked, wide-eyed. The thought was nearly inconceivable to her, given how close the two were.

"I doubt that very much," Archer said. "In fact, I'm pretty sure Trip approved."

"You've talked to him?" Hoshi asked.

"No," Archer admitted, "but there are no reports of _Chosin_ intercepting and boarding any Andorian ships, so he _must_ be okay with it."

Hoshi had to smile. "Good point."

"Yes, but that isn't why I've called you here."

Hoshi and Malcolm exchanged glances in a way that seemed strangely familiar to Archer. It only took an instant for him to realize why. _Trip and T'Pol used to look at each other like that_, he recalled. It didn't make what he was about to do any easier.

He slid a PADD across the table to Malcolm. "New orders for you. Effective tomorrow, you're being promoted to full Commander and assuming command of USS _Tiger_. Congratulations, Captain Reed."

Hoshi tried to contain a tiny gasp, without success.

Malcolm picked up the PADD and silently skimmed through the contents. Moments later he looked back up. "Who's my replacement here?"

"Hoshi."

"An excellent choice," Malcolm said, nodding approval.

"I thought so," Archer agreed. He slid a second PADD over to Hoshi. "Here are your orders, promoting you to Lieutenant Commander and appointing you First Officer."

She picked up the PADD, but didn't bother looking at it. "Aye, sir." Her brief moment of distress had passed; she was once again the battle-hardened Starfleet officer.

Archer searched her face but could see nothing but firm resolve. "What, no complaints about how you're not ready for this?" he asked, trying to interject some humor into a somber moment.

It worked. Hoshi's eyes twinkled as she replied, "Oh, you mean like when you sent me on that mission to the Klingon ship sinking in a gas giant? Or dragged me onto the Xindi weapon to decrypt their schematics? Or when you made me the Operations Officer of Second Fleet's flagship? Even _I_ eventually figured out that my complaints don't work. Besides, if Malcolm can do it, how hard can it be?" She smiled as she shot him a sidelong glance.

Archer relaxed and grinned at her joke. He had been braced for some resistance from her but-once again-she had surprised him with her great resilience. _She has come a VERY long way from that day I convinced her to quit her job teaching at the University_, Archer reflected. _Ensign to Lieutenant __Commander in eight years. Not bad. Not bad at all_.

Archer turned to Malcolm, expecting a sarcastic response to Hoshi's barb, but it never came. Instead, Malcolm was regarding her with an intent expression. Something else-something important-was clearly going through his mind.

"Jon," he said, turning his gaze from Hoshi to Archer, "since I'm leaving tomorrow, I'd like to ask you for a favor."

"Name it."

"Marry us," Malcolm said, "Hoshi and I. Marry us tonight."

Archer could not contain his surprise. "I'm... I... uh..."

Malcolm rescued him from the ordeal of constructing a coherent sentence. "With me going to _Tiger_, Hoshi and I are no longer in the same chain of command. We can be married without violating any Starfleet regulations." He looked at Hoshi, and his expression softened. "I know it seems sudden, but in reality this is long overdue."

_Sudden?_ Archer thought. _More like completely out of the blue. First Trip and T'Pol, now Hoshi and Malcolm_. Such surprises played hell with his self-image as the aware and capable captain with a finger on the pulse of his crew. "Hoshi?" he asked, feeling he had to say _something_.

Her eyes never left Malcolm's face as she answered, "Yes. Tonight." If her voice sounded a little husky-well, who could blame her?

_Looks like I'm holding a wedding tonight._

**Starfleet Recruit Training Facility, Huffman, Texas, United Earth, 12 Mar 2159**

Kov blew out his meditation candle and placed it on the top shelf of a wall locker reserved for that purpose. It was after lights-out-Taps, in human military parlance-and the orderly room was deserted save for him. Starfleet allowed an hour in which to meditate, the single concession made to his Vulcan heritage. Any other recruits caught away from their bunks were subject to the wrath of the odious Petty Officer Shifflett, Commander of Recruit Company 199.

In every other way, Kov was treated exactly as the other Starfleet recruits. He got up with them. He showered and shaved with them. He ate meals with them. He attended classes with them. He even engaged in physical training with them. 'PT' they called it. That was an abbreviation, he later learned, which also confused him until he remembered that 'physical' was spelled with a P, not an F. So yes, he was treated exactly like the others, as he had expected.

He had _not_ expected it to be quite so difficult.

He left the orderly room, closing the door gently behind him, and made his way down a row of double bunks that lined the wall of the open-bay barracks.

In the dim illumination of the fire lights, he could just make out the slumbering forms of his fellow recruits. The sounds of their snores and deep, even breathing assaulted his sensitive ears, a constant cacophony that had rendered him sleepless his first few nights. Eventually he'd adapted to his new surroundings, and the incessant clamor faded into the background. He was even becoming tolerant of their smells, and of the relentless riot of concepts, impressions, sights, and sounds bombarding his control: Unfamiliar customs, incomprehensible jokes, crude sexual innuendo, foul language, and so many different ways of saying the same thing that he despaired of ever becoming proficient in conversational English.

It had taken him two weeks, but he now believed-for the first time since his over-confident first day-that he might actually complete this process called 'Recruit Training.' For the first time he felt truly centered after his meditation. For the first time he had managed to bring some order to the chaos that surrounded him.

For the first time, he was anticipating a good night's sleep.

He slid into his bunk with exaggerated care, trying not to disturb Recruit Gertner in the bunk above him. He failed.

Gertner leaned over the edge of his bunk, his head appearing to Kov as a black silhouette against the faint glow of the fire lights. "Hey, Kov," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes?"

"Hey, sorry about getting you in trouble at PT. Thanks for not ratting me out."

Kov pondered the unfamiliar term, but could not puzzle out its meaning. Instead, he asked for clarification. He had learned that humans did not mind explaining their obscure phrases. Indeed, they often seemed to relish it. "I do not understand what 'ratting me out' means."

"Oh. Uh, you didn't squeal on me. You didn't tell Shifflett I was the one talking to you. By the way, where did you get so good at doing push-ups?"

"They are not difficult on a world with such low gravity and high oxygen content."

"Really? That's cool."

It _was_ relatively cool here, compared to Vulcan, but Kov suspected that was not Gertner's intended meaning. He filed the usage away for future reference, then closed his eyes for some sorely needed sleep.

"Hey, Kov."

Kov opened his eyes. "Yes?"

"Is it true you know Captain T'Pol?"

"I have met her before, while she was serving as _Enterprise's_ First Officer."

"Cool!"

There was that term again. Clearly it had nothing to do with temperature.

"So, is it true what they say? That the andies are sending her to work in a uranium mine? They say the life expectancy of the prisoners there is only six months."

"Who has told you this?"

"Strickland."

"I see," Kov said. "The same Strickland who told you that our graduation exercise consisted of being placed in an airlock with an EV Suit and given thirty seconds to put it on before the airlock was opened?"

"Um... yeah."

"Did that not demonstrate to you that his utterances cannot be relied on?"

"Well, yeah. But his brother-in-law _did_ graduate from RTF just last month."

"So he says."

"Yeah, so he says. Does this mean Captain T'Pol's not going to a uranium mine on Andoria?"

"I very much doubt it."

"Good." Gertner sounded relieved, even to Kov's less-than-discriminating ear. Once again he noted how popular Captain T'Pol was among humans. It was something he was grateful for, because her popularity had done much to smooth the way for him.

Kov closed his eyes once more, and once more was disappointed.

"Hey, Kov."

_An hour of meditation may not be enough._ "Yes."

"They're taking us up to the orbital training facility tomorrow. You've been in space before, right? You got any pointers for me?"

"Yes. Listen carefully to the cadre, and get plenty of sleep beforehand. I suggest you start now."

"Oh. Right. 'night, Kov."

"Goodnight, Gertner."

_**Amarith**_**, enroute to Andoria, 12 Mar 2159**

T'Pol studied her reflection in the mirror while fastening the clasps on her tunic. It was rather unsettling to see herself in an Imperial Guard uniform, albeit one without rank or insignia. Still, she had little choice. She'd brought nothing along with her but the clothes on her back, and a Guard uniform was preferable to the incandescent-green, one-size-fits-all ponchos that were standard garb for inmates in Andorian prisons and jails.

Special Agent Thaleen had protested vociferously when he found that Captain Akani had provided her with uniforms. His protests subsided quickly when Akani pointedly reminded him that there was plenty of room in the ship's brig.

"Do not become too comfortable, Vulcan," Thaleen had muttered darkly. "You are still a prisoner of Andoria, and Akani cannot protect you forever." Then he'd stalked away.

Akani was greatly agitated by Thaleen's threat and he apologized profusely to her, visibly distressed that he could not do more to help. T'Pol, for her part, was unmoved. Thaleen was simply promising to deliver what she had already resigned herself to face. Akani, for all his kindness, could only postpone the inevitable.

T'Pol turned away from the mirror and lifted her Starfleet uniform from where she had draped it over the chair. Carefully, she folded and stored it away. It was merely an object-pieces of colored fabric stitched together-yet she could not bring herself to regard it as such. Her uniform meant more to her than that; a great deal more. She knew it was illogical and quite improper, but she would feel a very unVulcan sense of loss when it was finally taken from her.

At one time, such an emotion would have distressed her greatly, causing her to question her very identity as a Vulcan. All her life she had struggled with such feelings, trying without success to suppress them. She could well remember the vague yearnings that had troubled her as a child, yearnings she could not act on without shame. Yearnings she could not even identify.

Only now could she put a name to those feelings that had disturbed her: desire, for a degree of companionship no living Vulcan could provide; curiosity and wanderlust, that drove her from her native world; a belief-no, _conviction_-that there was more to be had from life than the expectations of her parents and peers.

Eventually, she had come to the teeming shores of Earth, with its volatile inhabitants. Humans were an erratic people, maddening in their contradictions, yet somehow they awakened in her the restless stirrings she had tried so hard to suppress. Somehow, with the patient understanding and encouragement of one particular Human, she had finally gained mastery over her feelings.

By _embracing_ them.

A rasping buzz at her door announced the presence of Sergeant Barriv, the young Guardsman who acted as her escort whenever she left the room.

She took one last glance at her Guard-uniformed image in the mirror, then joined Barriv in the passageway. "Commander T'Pol, I greet you," he intoned formally, "Captain Akani awaits your presence."

"Thank you, Sergeant." She followed him to the Captain's mess, and found Akani already there, deep in consultation with his steward.

He looked up as she entered, and his face broke into a broad grin. "Commander T'Pol! Again you will dine with me, yes? And again I am honored. Please, does all remain well?"

"Yes, Captain. All is well."

"Very good. You look well. Perhaps it is the uniform? I find it suits you, even if it is strange to see a Vulcan wearing one!"

"The uniform is adequate. Thank you."

He scowled. "You will not wear prison-green on _this_ ship. But once we get to Andoria, I will no longer have the power to help you. You will not be treated well. No, not at all. But you know this, yes?"

"Yes. I have no misconceptions in that regard."

"You have an Andorian's courage, Commander. Yes, great courage! I would hesitate to place myself into Vulcan custody, if the situation were reversed."

"That is an understandable sentiment, given the history between our two people," T'Pol observed. "However, you would be treated much better on Vulcan that what awaits me on Andoria."

Akani laughed at that, but his laughter had a harsh edge. "Commander, you cannot truly believe that!" He looked more closely at her, "Ah, but I see that you do. Yes. You are not aware of what your own people are capable of. Perhaps I should educate you?"

"Perhaps you should."

"Yes. But first, food. And ale, yes?" Akani called Vran into the room. He entered bearing a flask of Ale, and left with their desired meal choices. T'Pol again opted for the bread and vegetable stew. Akani asked for something called Impararay, which evidently contained meat, judging by the apologetic look he gave her.

Akani took a long, bracing swallow of Ale before resuming his narrative. "My Uncle was an officer in the Imperial Guard Ground Forces. Threllen's Brigade. He was captured by Vulcans in the fighting on Weytahn. Of course they interrogated him."

"Of course."

"They wished to know the number and disposition of Andorian forces they faced. Of course he would not tell them."

"Of course."

"So of course they tortured him."

T'Pol's eyebrows went up. "Torture? Vulcans do not torture."

"You truly believe that. Oh, yes, I can tell. You truly do not know what your fellow Vulcans are capable of doing in the name of logic." Akani smiled sadly, "I am sorry to be the one who will tell you this. It is a hard thing to learn. Yes, hard I know."

"What did they do?"

"When he would not answer their questions, they broke his fingers. One-by-one, starting with his little fingers. Yes, the little ones first. His thumbs were last."

T'Pol stared in disbelief.

"When he still would not answer their questions, they begin cutting off his antenna." Akani's own antenna twitched at the thought. "Commander, you have no antenna. No, not at all. You cannot know how terribly sensitive they are. Terribly! To have the tip cut from your antenna causes excruciating pain. Yes. It is so. They started taking slices from his antenna. Not the whole antenna, no. Just small slices."

Akani paused for another drink of ale. "My Uncle is a fierce fighter, a brave soldier. Very brave. But the pain was too much. Yes, he told them. He told them what they asked."

"Afterwards, the Vulcans treated him well. They repaired his broken fingers and treated his antenna so they would regrow faster. They even apologized to him. Yes, apologized! They told him that the information he gave them prevented many casualties on both sides. It was logical, yes? They told him the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one. They were the many, he was the one, yes?"

"So, Commander, now you know. It is the way of things, is it not? I make no judgments. No, not I. We both know my people would have behaved no differently."

T'Pol did not want to believe it, but she did. Captain Akani had proven himself to be a man of honor and integrity, and his tale had the ring of truth. _Is there really that little difference between Vulcans and Andorians?_

It would not be the first time she had discovered her fellow Vulcans subverting the teachings of Surak to attain specific goals. Even noble goals. She recalled past discussions she'd had with Trip as he struggled to learn Vulcan philosophy. He had shown a visceral dislike for Surak's observation about the needs of the many from the very first time he heard it. Humans once used similar philosophies to justify all manner of horrors, Trip had explained. 'The tyranny of the masses,' he had called it. Sometimes the needs of the many need to take a hike, he'd remarked in a typically cryptic human fashion.

T'Pol argued that Vulcans would be guided by logic as they applied Surak's philosophy, and would avoid the errors made by humans. She vividly remembered Trip's disdainful response: _Logic has no heart._

She did not understand at the time. _Could_ not understand.

Only now, years later, did she finally comprehend his meaning. Only now did it make sense. And she realized he was right. _If two lives can be saved by torturing one, does not logic demand it?_

For logic has no heart.

T'Pol would have much to meditate on that night.

**The Callium, Romulus, ****15 Mar 2159**

His Magnificence Karrivus III, Praetor of the Romulan Star Empire, wondered if he had made a mistake.

His new Grand Marshal had held the position for just over a month, and had already made sweeping changes within the Romulan military. All General Orders and Operating Procedures had been rescinded and reissued. Some of the changes were major, many were minor to the point of insignificance. A massive redeployment of forces was underway as Krotash prepared for the hammer blow with which he intended to end the war.

Most troubling were the personnel changes. Every officer who had served on Vokalus' original staff was replaced, and every Fleet and Battle Group had a new Commander, hand-picked by Krotash. Karrivus well understood the necessity of having people you trusted in key positions, but there was also something to be said for continuity and experience.

Grand Marshal Krotash stood patiently, waiting for his Praetor's permission to begin his briefing. Karrivus firmly set aside his misgivings; he had made his choice. Krotash was the one who would bring this war to a rapid and victorious conclusion, something the overly cautious Vokalus had been unable to do. He gestured for Krotash to begin.

"Magnificence, I have ordered all available forces to Lanus to prepare for a direct assault on Earth," Krotash declared smoothly. "The redeployment will be complete within two weeks. Then we will strike."

He used his pointer to indicate Lalande in the holographic display, with its large concentration of Coalition vessels. "As you can see, the Coalition's available forces are gathered to defend Lalande. They expect it to be the target of our next assault. By the time they realize our fleets are heading for Earth, it will be too late. The Human home world will fall!" Krotash made no effort to hide his great satisfaction with the plan.

Karrivus studied the display quietly. "And you are not concerned that the large force at Lalande remains between you and your sources of supply?"

Krotash sneered his contempt. "I will hold their home world hostage. If they do not surrender, I will destroy their cities one-by-one until they do."

_Harsh, but effective_, Karrivus mused. _Yes, I believe I made the right decision when I replaced Vokalus as Grand Marshal_. Still, there was one more item to get out of the way before his mind could be completely at ease.

"Tell me, Krotash," he said, "What of this rumor that the Coalition fleet has abandoned Lalande?"

Krotash scowled, "It is baseless, Magnificence. Who has told you this?"

Actually, Karrivus did not know the source. One of his ministers had received an anonymous note, purportedly from a highly-placed officer within the Fleet. "Who told me is not important. I wish to know whether it can be true. It is said that the Coalition fleet has departed Lalande, and nothing remains there but the picket screen and those damnable decoy drones."

"It cannot be true, Magnificence. But if it were true, where would they go? They would fall back to Earth of course, to make their last stand against our forces. But it changes nothing. They would still be hopelessly outnumbered and Earth would still fall. No Magnificence, the war will soon be over, and the Romulan Star Empire will be vastly larger!"

_Yes, I definitely made the right decision_. Karrivus smiled, "And on _that_ day, Krotash, you will be well rewarded. Go now. I am sure you have much to do to prepare for our great victory."

As he left the Callium, Krotash could barely contain his anticipation at the great rewards before him. All that he had ever longed for was now within his grasp: power; status; recognition; wealth. _All this awaits me, and more! In two weeks time I will give the order, and the largest, most powerful armada ever assembled will sorty from Lanus on its glorious mission to smash the Coalition's forces once and for all. Victory for the Praetor!_

**Continued in Chapter Four**


	4. Chapter 4

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol is tried in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**FOUR**

TOP SECRET - - TOP SECRET - - TOP SECRET  
PRECEDENCE: IMMEDIATE

FROM:  
Headquarters, Joint Coalition Command  
Personal from Fleet Admiral Gardner

TO:  
Office of the President, United Earth  
Eyes Only President Vandeusen

DTG: 15 0943Z MAR 59

Mr. President,  
1. I am providing my private observations of conditions on the front lines, which I intend as a supplement to the official report prepared by my staff. I thought it would be appropriate, given how you supported my desire for a personal visit in spite of opposition from your advisors.

2. Commander T'Pol's decision to surrender to Andorian custody was entirely her own, as I'm sure you have suspected. I was deadly serious when I told you I would never willingly submit to Shalin's demands, even if he carried out his threat. I apologize once more for my heated words to you, but I will never apologize for my passionate support of those serving in harm's way. Please realize I intended no disrespect to you or your office. The Vulcans remain adamant that Shalin was not bluffing, even though Commander T'Pol's actions have now rendered the point moot. She has quite possibly saved the Coalition from military disaster, and the two of us from having to make some truly painful decisions. Mr. President, I hope you fully appreciate the magnitude of her personal sacrifice.

3. While at Lalande, I met at length with Admiral Chu and his staff. I reviewed his plans for Operation Drumhead and determined they are sound. I also met with the Starfleet Captains and crews of the ships that had not yet departed for the Rho Virginis sector, and was impressed by what I saw. They've been fighting a rearguard action against the Romulans for three years now. To a man, they are eager to take the fight to the Romulans. One look in their eyes was all I needed to see the enthusiasm and resolve with which they approach this great enterprise. I could not be more proud of them.

4. Similarly, I met with our Coalition allies, and found them to be equally resolute. The Andorians are true warriors, willing to engage their enemies any time and any place, heedless of the odds. Their aggressive swagger strikes us humans as mere braggadocio, but they have never failed to back up their bold words with equally bold deeds. The Vulcans, of course, are their normal impassive selves. It was as if we were discussing what they had for lunch, rather than an operation that could decide the fate of our quadrant for the next hundred years. The most I could get from them is that they find it to be an 'agreeable plan', with an 'acceptable probability for a successful outcome'. The Tellarites insulted my intelligence, my appearance, and my ancestry, but I found it telling that they made no disparaging remarks about human courage, or the courage of their other allies. Nor do we have any cause or reason to disparage theirs.

5. As I write this, the order has gone out and our fleets depart to strike at the Romulan installations in the Rho Virginis system. My role in this endeavor is now complete; from this point on I am nothing more than a spectator. It is now in the hands of those remarkable men and women who have stood between us and an overwhelming Romulan force for three years. If our forces are not victorious, the failure will be mine and mine alone. I dictated the order of battle and set the timetable for the attack. I personally approved every aspect of the operation. I will allow no fault to be found with the devotion, bravery, or skill of those who execute my plans and pay the price for my mistakes.

6. I will inform you immediately as updates are received. May God be with us.

Very Respectfully,

FADM David R. Gardner  
HQJCC

TOP SECRET - - TOP SECRET - - TOP SECRET

#####

_**Chosin**_**, en route to Eta Corvi, 15 Mar 2159**

Trip poked his head into the ship's office and caught the eye of his First Officer. "Got a minute?" he asked, before stepping back into the passageway. He saw no sense in waiting for the answer to what was, after all, a rhetorical question.

Graham emerged seconds later, a quizzical expression on his face. "Sir?"

"Is everything okay?" Trip asked.

"Yes Captain, everything's fine," Graham replied, his expression turning to one of puzzlement.

Trip grinned. "Oh, good. It just seemed you were walking a little lop-sided. Probably those new Lieutenant Commander pips weighing you down."

Graham smiled sheepishly. "They do take some getting used to. Chief Verley called me 'Commander' yesterday, and I thought you were standing behind me."

"I have the same reaction when someone calls me Captain," Trip agreed.

"Yessir. So do you need me, Captain, or did you just want to yank my chain?"

"Drumhead is a go," Trip said. "Coalition fleets at Eta Corvi and Zeta Tri broke orbit twenty minutes ago."

Operation Drumhead was the official designation for the assault on the Rho Virginis system, so named because, in the words of an anonymous Second Fleet staff officer, "we're going to beat the Romulans like a drum."

Graham's expression grew somber. "That's gonna be a hell of a fight, sir. Part of me wants to be there, but another part is glad we're missing it."

"That would be the sane part of you," Trip observed. "But we may not be missing it entirely. Get Lieutenant Koussa and meet me on the bridge in ten minutes. I'll explain then."

"Aye, sir."

#####

"Captain's on the bridge."

_That's me_, Trip thought, resisting the urge to look behind him. Lieutenant Walder had the watch, and she jumped from the command chair, but Trip waved her back down. "We just need to borrow the view screen," he told her.

Chief Verley was already on the bridge waiting for him, and Commander Graham and Lieutenant Koussa (newly appointed as _Chosin's_ Operations Officer) arrived right behind him. Since the bridge's two weapons stations were only manned during general quarters, Trip pulled them over to that side, out of the way of the watch-standers. _Too bad Chosin doesn't have a situation room like Enterprise. It would come in handy for times like this when I need a large tactical display._

"Kate, would you slave the view screen over to the main weapons console?" Trip asked Walder. "It's just for a few minutes, then we'll be out of your hair."

"Done sir. Take your time, it won't hurt us to fly from our consoles for a while."

Trip nodded absently, already calling up a high-level view of Operation Drumhead. The star field along _Chosin's_ flight path blanked out, replaced by the region of space around Rho Virginis. "This is the current situation," Trip explained. He highlighted Eta Corvi on the display "This is Fleet Group One."

Koussa scratched his head. "Fleet Group?"

Graham answered him. "Yeah, Fleet Group. They needed a name for something bigger than a fleet, and that's what they came up with."

"Right," Trip confirmed. "Fleet Group One left Eta Corvi less than an hour ago, composed of Starfleet's Second and Third Fleets, Tellar's Third and Fourth Fleets, the Romulan Expeditionary Fleet from Vulcan, and Jalan's Fleet, Shareb's Fleet and Endareth's Fleet from Andoria. Fleet Group Two warped out of Zeta Tri with Starfleet's First and Fifth Fleets, Tellar's Fifth Fleet, and Tyvya's Fleet, Ghaniri's Fleet, and... and Hraioth's Fleet." Trip stumbled over the last Andorian name, and wished-not for the first time- that the Imperial Guard would adopt a more sensible naming convention for military units, rather than using their Commander's name. "That's a total of fourteen fleets, by far the most powerful Coalition force yet assembled."

"And it's still only even odds," Koussa murmured.

"It's a little better than that," Trip pointed out. "For the first time in the war, the supply of mark two torpedoes exceeds the demand. Not only is every Starfleet vessel carrying a full combat load with all the latest mods, but half of the Vulcan and Andie ships have been retrofitted with mark two launchers, and about a third of the Tellarites. The Rommies are gonna think it's raining mark twos."

Graham chuckled, "It must really bug the Andies that a piece of human ordnance is superior to their home-grown version."

"There was some initial resistance to the idea of switching, but they couldn't argue with the results. And what Captain is _not_ going to do whatever he can to stack the odds in his favor? Even if it means using Starfleet torpedoes?"

"No Captain that I'd want to serve under."

"Nor I," Trip agreed.

"Captain, you said we might not be missing all the action," Graham said. "What did you mean?"

Trip turned his attention back to the display. "Any time now, the Rommies are going to detect our Fleets converging on Rho Virg. When that happens, what's the first thing they'll do?"

"Shit their pants?" Koussa asked.

Trip grinned. "After they shit their pants."

Chief Verley was staring intently at the screen. "If I were the Romulan Commander, I'd evacuate all my non-combat assets. And anything too valuable or too important to lose..."

"Bingo," Trip said. "But look-the direct route to Romulus takes them right between our two Fleet Groups. If I were them, I'd send my ships THIS way, out the Coalition side of the system. I've computed the shortest route back to Romulus that avoids our attacking fleets." Trip pressed a key and a red line appeared on the display, arcing up over Rho Virginis, and curving back toward Romulus. "It adds four to six days of travel time, but it keeps them beyond the reach of our fleets."

"But not beyond _our_ reach," Verley concluded. "If we change course now, we'll be in position to intercept them right about... here."

"Exactly."

"You know, Captain, whatever ships the Rommies evacuate are going to be escorted," Graham pointed out. "We could find ourselves facing a sizable force."

"You're right, we could. But we won't be alone." Trip bent over the weapons console and zoomed the display to show the space between Lalande and Eta Corvi. "There are sixteen ships in transit to Eta Corvi, including _Chosin_. Five of them are close enough or fast enough to reach the intercept point in time." Trip highlighted the icons of all five ships. "That's a total of six ships. A respectable force; plus we'll have the element of surprise."

Graham and Koussa both nodded. They knew very well how powerful _that_ could be, when properly exploited.

Koussa stepped closer to the view screen, pulling on his lip as he studied the display. "Looks like four frigates and two corvettes," he said. He read the names below their icons: "Frigates _Yorktown_, _Verdun_, and _Chicamauga_. Corvettes _Galloway_ and _Armstrong_. Huh. I'm surprised to see _Galloway_. She took a hell of a pounding in the Teneebian sector."

"The starbase repair shops are getting pretty damn good at fixing battle damage," Graham said. "Lord knows they get enough practice."

"They turned us around pretty quick," Trip agreed. "So, what do you think of the plan. Comments? Suggestions?"

"I like it," Graham said.

Koussa continued studying the display. "Have you run this by Khart-lan?" he asked.

Trip and Verley exchanged amused glances. _He doesn't realize that half of T'Pol's more brilliant tactical concepts originated with Verley or me_, Trip thought, _and I'm not going to disabuse him of the notion_.

"She's reviewed and approved it," Trip answered truthfully.

"Then I like it too," Koussa said.

"Okay. Commander Graham, please draft a summary of the concept; I'd like something I can send to Admiral Chu within the hour. We'll meet again after we receive his response."

"Aye, sir."

#####

Lieutenant Commander Saracco bit her lip and stared intently at the log file scrolling across the terminal in the ChEng's office. _Her_ office now, and wasn't that a kick in the pants? "There! See?" She paused the listing and pointed at the offending line. "Compare this to the same readings from last month. Warp coils are drawing five percent more power for the same field density, but everything else is the same: intermix ratios, plasma flow, containment field. Temperature and pressure are up, but they're dependent on power draw, so they _should_ be up. I dunno Captain, I'm stumped."

"Have you checked the power feeds from the converter?" Captain Tucker asked, giving the data on her screen a closer look.

"Yes sir. They're also up five percent."

"Then we know it's something real and not a measurement error. E times I never lies, not in direct-current circuits."

"It's real, alright. If it was less than two percent, I'd chalk it up to changes in the space-time gradient, but no one's ever seen a gradient shift _this_ big."

"Well... not outside the expanse, anyway," the Captain said, an indecipherable look on his face.

_Sounds like a story worth hearing_, Saracco thought. She waited several beats for him to elaborate, and was mildly disappointed when he didn't. "So, what could be causing this?"

He shrugged. "What do you think?"

"Your going to make me figure this out myself, aren't you."

"Think of it as a learning experience," he said, and there was a decidedly impish quality to his grin.

Saracco stuck her tongue out at him. "It could only be a couple of things then, and I've already ruled one of them out-nothing is wrong with the dilithium matrix, no cracks or impurities, and no changes to it's resonant properties. The only other thing it could be is a change in the physical alignment of the warp coils. And I think we would have noticed if the warp nacelles had shifted relative to each other..."

"Yeah," Captain Tucker agreed, "we definitely would've noticed _that_."

Saracco fidgeted under his calm gaze. _Damn, I feel like a kid who forgot to do her homework_. "So if it's not a change in warp-field geometry, what _is_ it..?" she asked.

His answer was preempted by the comm panel. "Bridge to Captain Tucker."

"Tucker."

"Captain, we've received new orders from Second Fleet."

"Thanks, Kate. Send them to my- uh, send them to _ChEng's_ office. I'll read them here."

"Aye, sir. Bridge out."

"Got 'em," Saracco said as an indicator on her terminal flashed. She called them up and swiveled her display to allow Captain Tucker a better view.

He leaned forward and began to read. "I'll be damned," he muttered after he had paged through a couple of screens of text.

"Problem, Captain?"

"Admiral Chu approved my plan to interdict any Rommies trying to escaping from Rho Virg. Our six ships will form Task Force 2.1."

"That's great," Saracco said. "Isn't it?"

"He's putting ME in command."

"Wow, Task Force Commander. That's even better."

Captain Tucker shook his head. "At least two of the other Captains have seniority on me. And all six of them have more command time."

Saracco grinned at her Captain's discomfort. "Maybe so, but it _is_ your plan. Plus you're commanding _Chosin_. How many Rommie kills do the other ships have, hmmm? I'll bet not as many as us even if you lumped them all together."

"Nowhere near as many," he admitted, "but that's not the point. I've never commanded a task force before."

"And I've never been the ChEng before," Saracco replied, "So quit your bellyaching and do your job. _Sir_." She delighted in throwing his own words back at him, the words he had used on her when she balked at taking the Chief Engineer's position. She made no effort to contain the smug look on her face.

"Sage advice, Luisa," Captain Tucker said. "How'd you get to be so smart?"

"I learned at the feet of the master."

He chuckled as he stood, "Gotta go. Seems I have a Task Force to run."

"Captain, wait. What about the excess power draw?"

"Oh, that. Have Green check the hull for leaks. A slow air leak can throw out enough mass to alter field geometry. I saw the same thing in the expanse from a bad patch job after Azati Prime." He clapped her on the shoulder as he left.

_Of course. An air leak would certainly do it_. Saracco pressed the comm to page Ensign Green.

#####

**The Callium, Romulus, 16 Mar 2159**

"Krotash, what am I to make of this report that two large Coalition fleets are converging on Rho Virginis? I desire your thoughts on the matter." The Praetor's words were bland, his voice even, but there was an undertone of displeasure that Grand Marshal Krotash had no trouble detecting.

Krotash took a moment to compose himself. He had not been surprised at the Praetor's summons-it was only to be expected, given the alarming nature of the report-but that did nothing to relieve him of his nervousness. _When the Praetor is displeased, everyone nearby is at risk_.

Since receiving the summons, he had done nothing but ponder the best way to interpret the report's data for the Praetor. He had felt confident coming into the meeting, but that confidence was not holding up under the Praetor's piercing gaze.

Swallowing his unease, he crossed the room to the holographic terminal, where the data from the report in question was on prominent display. He had made this same journey many times since replacing Vokalus as Grand Marshal, but this was the first time he'd felt no exhilaration at being in the Praetor's presence, or having the Praetor's undivided attention.

He cleared his throat. "Your Magnificence, you must realize that these are preliminary reports from long-range sensor scans. They are inconclusive. I have dispatched scouts to collect better intelligence and will have their reports in a matter of days. In the meantime, any speculation is premature."

"Such as the speculation that an attack on Rho Virginis is imminent?"

"Yes, Magnificance. Such as that."

"What else am I to conclude? What else could it be but an attack on Rho Virginis?"

Krotash's nervousness increased by several notches. "Perhaps more Coalition trickery. This may be nothing more than a small force, augmented by those despicable decoy drones the Coalition is so fond of."

The Praetor fixed him with a hard stare. "I am reminded of our last meeting, Krotash. You assured me that the main Coalition fleet had not slipped away from Lalande. If the Coalition fleet is still at Lalande, then it can not also be on its way to attack Rho Virginis."

"Ah... Yes, Magnificence."

The Praetor continued his analysis. "So I should believe that the Coalition, with their history of attacking our logistic bases and supply lines, would not slip away to attack our facilities at Rho Virginis? That they would instead choose to meet our offensive head-on?"

"Ah..." A sick feeling began growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Speak, Krotash."

"Magnificence... I... I assure you that the situation is in hand. This is simply a trick. A desperate attempt to get us to pull our forces back so they can buy themselves a little more time..."

"Perhaps you are correct," the Praetor remarked. His tone was mild, his words reasonable, and Krotash began to relax-until the Praetor's next utterance. "There is one more thing you should know, Krotash. Consul Galtan is currently at Rho Virginis on my behalf. If any harm befalls her, it will not go well for you."

Krotash blanched. Prime Consul Galtan was a high-ranking official in the Praetor's cabinet. She was also the Praetor's consort and closest confident. The Praetor's own wife-from a marriage of political expediency-held less of his affection and esteem. Considerably less, if the whispered rumors were true.

"Her safety will be my highest priority, Magnificence. If you will excuse me, I have much to do," Krotash said, desperate to be away from the Praetor's presence.

The Praetor dismissed him with a casual flick of his hand and watched as he scurried from the room. He turned a thoughtful look toward his Chief Minister, who stood a respectful twelve paces behind him, as custom dictated. "Pyral, refresh my memory. Was Vokalus executed following his conviction for treason?"

"No, Magnificence."

"In that case, have him brought here. I would have words with him."

"Yes, Magnificence."

#####

_**Chosin**_**, en route to Rho Virginis, 16 Mar 2159**

T'Pol's contented sigh as she snuggled against Trip's chest was barely audible, but it brought a half-smile to his face. _Yeah, me too, darling_, he thought. _Me too_.

He pulled her in tighter, using his left arm because his right was occupied with the important task of caressing her hair and the tips of her ears. He was continually amazed at how realistic, how _physical, _these encounters in T'Pol's meditative space could be. The warmth of her body against his skin, the texture of her hair beneath his fingers, the soft touch of her breath on his chest, even the subtle fragrance of her skin-it required an effort on his part to remember that his true body was lying on the bunk in his quarters, deep in a meditative state.

Yes, he realized his wife and soul-mate was really on an Andorian warship light years away. He knew it, but refused to dwell on it. _This may not be real, but it's still pretty damned good_. In fact, in some ways it was better; in the real world, he could not have held T'Pol on his lap this long without one or both of his feet going numb from restricted circulation.

Trip's eyes shifted to the featureless white fog that surrounded them. At one time they had experimented with different surroundings-his favorite being the Florida beach, stunning in its detail-but the mental effort required to maintain those settings had been too taxing on T'Pol. She had not been able to relax and enjoy them, which defeated their purpose. He'd insisted she return to her neutral white background. _After all, the scenery that matters is right here in my arms_.

"Are you still eating in the Captain's mess every night?"

T'Pol barely stirred as she answered his question. "Mm-hmm."

Her state of total relaxation reminded Trip of a cat lying in a sunbeam. "You know, we don't have to talk now if you don't want to."

"I do not mind," she replied, after a barely discernible pause. "What do you wish to discuss?"

"Anything. Everything. I don't care, I just like hearing your voice."

She considered his request. It was clear to her that Trip wanted to engage in what humans called 'small talk.' This was not a problem; she had long since developed logical procedures for such. "I visited _Amarith's_ comm center today and placed a subspace call to _Chosin_. But you already know that."

"Yeah," Trip agreed. "Just so you know, your call was a real boost to the crew's morale. They worry about you and they miss you a lot. Maybe more than I do, since they don't have _this_." He bent down and kissed the top of her head for emphasis.

"I will continue to call as long as I am able. Once I reach Andoria, I doubt it will be permitted."

Trip did not answer. T'Pol on Andoria was high on the list of things he preferred not to think about right now.

T'Pol continued with her 'small talk' protocol. "While I was in the comm center, I saw an autographed picture of the human singer Mandy Knight taped to the bulkhead."

This caught Trip's interest. "Really? Andorians listen to Mandy Knight?"

"They were introduced to human music through USO shows. The younger Guardsmen have grown quite fond of it. I hear many familiar tunes as I move about the ship, although I believe a great deal of the appeal is the revealing show costumes your female singers wear."

"Nah, not that. It's the catchy rhythms. Beats those Andorian ice ballads all hollow."

Trip couldn't see it, but he knew T'Pol's eyebrow had arched into a delicate expression of Vulcan skepticism. "I might have believed that, were I not aware of your own attraction to Mandy Knight's physical attributes."

"Sorry, darling. I know it's different for Vulcan males, but us Earth guys can't help our instinctive biological responses."

"It is who you are Trip, and you need not apologize for it. It means everything to me that in spite of your strong attraction to the women of your own race, _I_ am the one you chose. You know this is so."

Trip gave her an affectionate squeeze. "Yeah, I know. And how many of them could spot-check my warp field calculations? I want more in a partner than just a pretty face."

T'Pol couldn't help it. A thrill of pleasure ran through her at his use of the word 'partner' and its connotation that she was more to him-much more-than just a lover. "Then I need not be concerned until I hear that Mandy Knight has obtained her degree in warp engineering."

"Her _advanced_ degree," Trip corrected. "She'd also need degrees in physics, astrophysics, astronomy, and xeno-biology. I'd have to say your position is fairly safe."

"I am gratified to hear that." T'Pol shifted into a sitting position, turning to look at him, and there was a gleam of mischief in her eyes. "It is your turn for small talk," she stated. "About anything. I too like hearing your voice."

"Hmmm... Well, I've been running combat simulations with the bridge crew. Seems to be going well, although Verley had a recommendation for me."

"I suggest you heed it."

"Don't you want to hear what he said?"

"Very well. Tell me what he said, _then_ heed it."

Trip snorted. "He said I'm a little too lackadaisical. A little too laid back. At one point in a simulation, I ordered a salvo of torpedoes by saying 'let's hit 'em with a dozen mark twos and see what happens.' Verley said I should try not to suggest that I don't know exactly what's going to happen next."

"Chief Verley is correct. The crew derives confidence from your certainty. Even if you are not certain, you must appear to be."

"Yeah, I knew he was right as soon as I heard it. I just figured with all the combat experience under their belts, I didn't have to exhibit the same rock-like presence as you."

T'Pol let the reference slide. She knew in this context, being compared to a rock was a positive thing. "They will still have moments of nervousness," she said. "It might be helpful for you to recognize the different ways they manifest their unease."

"Such as?"

"When Ensign Bowman is frightened, he will tap his foot repeatedly on the deck. A hand on the shoulder and a calm word are enough to settle him. Ensign Litke's mannerisms are different. He will glance repeatedly at the command chair. I am uncertain why; perhaps to reassure himself that I have not abandoned my post?"

"Anyone else?" Trip asked. He was fascinated by T'Pol's insights, not just because they were useful, but because of what they revealed of the depth of her familiarity with humans.

"Yes. Lieutenant Walder grips the edge of her console, very tightly. Lieutenant Koussa talks louder and faster than normal. Commander Graham leans in closer to his console I can also hear him swallowing over the bridge comm circuit."

"How do you know it's Graham swallowing?"

T'Pol gave Trip a reproving look. "I have ears."

"Sorry," he chuckled. "Dumb question. Please, continue..."

"When I give them their orders, I make it a point to provide them with my assessment of the tactical situation and how it will unfold. This removes the fear of the unknown, and helps them feel that the situation is under control."

Trip nodded. It was actually sound advice. "What about me," he joked, "What do I do when I'm scared?"

"Your accent becomes more pronounced."

Trip blinked in surprise. He had imagined himself calm and collected under fire, and was chagrined to learn that he exhibited any signs of stress. He vowed in that moment that he would never, under any circumstances, play poker with a Vulcan. At least not for money.

"And Trinh?" he asked, trying to turn the spotlight of T'Pol's entirely-to-keen perception onto somebody else.

She considered his question before answering. "Nothing seems to frighten him. Or Chief Verley."

"Hmmph. That just means you haven't noticed anything."

"As you say."

"So what about you, T'Pol? What scares _you_?" he teased, expecting one of her reflexive 'Vulcans do not' responses.

"Romulan vessels on the tactical display."

He grinned at the way she had neatly sidestepped his expectations. "C'mere, you," he said, pulling her back into the crook of his arm. "Do you know what I love about you?"

She favored him with her 'Vulcan eyes'. "No, for it is different every time you tell me."

"Oh. Then I suppose it must be _everything_."

"And I suppose this once I will not take issue with your typical lack of discernment."

"Lack of discernment? Whatever do you mean? I picked you-"

"_Bridge to Captain Tucker_."

"-didn't I?" Trip's good nature evaporated at the interruption from the comm unit. "Now what?" he muttered.

"Go, my love. I will be here when you return." T'Pol kissed him once and the background fog closed around them, thickening into blackness. When Trip opened his eyes, he was back in his quarters on _Chosin_.

Alone.

He rose from his bunk and stepped to the comm panel, not bothering to turn up the lights in the darkened room. He stabbed the reply button, "Tucker."

"Captain, we've received a sitrep from Second Fleet. A convoy of Romulan vessels has been detected leaving Rho Virginis. Twenty noncombatants, with an escort of two foxtrot-class warbirds, one delta-class, and six alphas."

"What course?"

"Along the predicted route. They're heading toward the intercept point."

A slow smile spread across Trip's face. "Have Commander Graham, Lieutenant Koussa, and Chief Verley meet me on the bridge in fifteen minutes. We've got a Romulan ass-kicking to plan."

"Aye, sir."

#####

_**Chosin**_**, en route to Rho Virginis, 17 Mar 2159**

"Sorry I'm late," Trinh said as he entered _Chosin's_ tiny workout room. With one treadmill, a single universal weight machine, and a three-meter by two-meter section of padding on the deck, it was more of a workout closet than a room, but it was all they had.

Moose looked up from the stretching exercise she was engaged in, and Trinh studied her face for signs of irritation. He felt relief when her face brightened into a smile, and he marveled once more at the contrast with his former girlfriends back in Atlanta. _They would've been pissed, and made damn sure everyone around them knew it_. "Captain's last combat simulation ran a little long," he explained.

"Sounds like maybe we've got a Captain who'll make you slackers on the bridge do some real work for a change," she replied in the most innocent of tones.

Trinh chuckled at the slam, and at the memory of the many times earlier in the war when Commander Tucker had drifted onto the bridge and gently reminded an oblivious Khart-lan that she needed to give her bridge team a break. "Yeah, maybe. But don't you want to know why the simulation ran so long?"

Moose shifted position to stretch her other leg. "Okay, I'll bite. Why did the simulation run so long?"

"Captain Tucker had to brief the other task force Captains on his op plan. He did it from the bridge so we could listen. He said since we'd have to implement the plan, we might as well hear the briefing, too."

Moose stopped her stretching, her attention fully on Trinh. "You know the plan? Spill it!"

"Yes ma'am," Trinh said, smiling. "It's really pretty simple. _Chosin's_ gonna do an end-run on the Rommies. We'll use our speed to position ourselves ahead of them. The rest of the task force will come in behind them."

Moose frowned as she considered his words. "Um, we're going to be directly in the Rommie's path? Just us?"

"Yep," Trinh confirmed. "None of the other ships in the task force have the legs to get there."

"And how many Rommie ships are we talking about?"

"Twenty-nine."

Moose allowed herself an expression of mild surprise. "How many are warbirds?"

"Nine. Two foxtrots, one delta, and six alphas."

"Hmm. So we're putting ourselves in the way of nine warbirds. What's to keep them from steamrolling right over us?"

Trinh grinned. "We've got twelve decoy drones. The Rommies will see thirteen frigates in front of them but only three frigates and two corvettes behind them. What would you do?"

Moose nodded in understanding. "I'd turn toward the smaller force."

"Right. Then at the proper moment we put on a burst of speed and catch them in a crossfire. With all the six-packs we have staged in the launch bay AND the cargo hold, we can launch thirty photonic torpedoes simultaneously. The Rommies will have to split their fire between torpedoes from _Chosin_ and the rest of the task force. We'll swamp their defenses. Once we've taken out the warbirds, the noncombatants will be politely asked to surrender or we'll disable their engines."

"What if the warbirds don't take the bait and keep coming at us?"

Trinh shrugged. "Then we run away. They can't catch us; we're too fast."

"It sounds okay," Moose said, "but you're the tactician here; what do you think?"

"It's a good plan," Trinh replied, "the kind of plan Khart-lan would've come up with."

Moose interpreted that to mean Trinh thought it was a VERY good plan.

Trinh tossed his towel in the corner and began rotating his shoulders to loosen them. "So who gets first crack at the treadmill tonight?" he asked.

"Wellll..."

Trinh turned his full attention to his workout partner, alerted by the mischievous lilt in her voice. "What?" he asked, regarding her suspiciously.

Moose gave him that little half-smile that never failed to make his heart leap. "I was thinking you could show me some wrestling moves..."

Trinh had little doubt that any 'wrestling' lesson would quickly devolve into a more intimate style of grappling, and although the idea had a great deal of appeal to him, it caused him to hesitate.

Growing up, Trinh had been the envy of his friends. The best wrestler in his weight class in the state of Georgia for two years straight, he was heavily recruited by the wrestling programs at colleges and universities throughout North America and Europe... until they saw his grades. Academics had been low on his list of priorities, and his grades reflected it.

Not that he cared. Why should he? He had it made. Highly popular with the students that mattered, he'd always had the best-looking girls hanging on his arms, gazing at him with adoring eyes. Eyes vacant of anything _real_.

He'd quickly learned not to bring his girlfriends home-not unless his mother was away. It was how he avoided that look she'd give him, that look of disapproval and disappointment. He pretended not to care, pretended it didn't bother him, but it did.

Moose was different from those girls, different in every way that mattered. Moose was someone he'd be proud to have his mother meet: _Hey mom, this is Linda Froehner. Her friends call her Moose. __During the fighting in the Teneebian sector, she was set adrift and had less than two minutes of air left when we found her, but she was laughing and joking like she'd just been on a tourist excursion. She's got guts, mom._

Of course, back then a girl like Moose would never have gotten the time of day from him. If he had noticed her at all, it would only have been to ridicule her plain looks or laugh at her large size. That realization now shamed him deeply. He wasn't sure exactly when he changed, but he had. Giggling, empty-headed beauty no longer appealed to him. He needed something more. _Someone_ more. Someone like Moose.

But he was terrified of losing her.

He had treated his previous girlfriends with a casual disdain that bordered on contempt. They would just giggle and cling to him even tighter. Moose expected more-_deserved_ more-but he had no experience dealing with such women. What if he lapsed into his old, familiar patterns? What if he said or did something to offend her?

Moose noticed his hesitation. "Dat? Is something wrong?"

"Well, yeah. Much as I'd like to um... 'wrestle' with you, this is not exactly the most private of places," Trinh said, glancing at the door.

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You're afraid someone will catch us making out? I thought you were proud of your bad-boy image."

"I was thinking more of your image," he admitted.

Moose stood and placed a hand on Trinh's arm. "Aww, that's sweet. But I think I can take care of my own reputation." She stepped in close, and Trinh's breath caught in his throat at the suggestive look she gave him. Her hand lightly stroked his arm, and she leaned in to kiss him awkwardly on the cheek.

She was much less experience at the art of seduction than any of his old girlfriends but Trinh found her clumsiness quite endearing-now. The old Trinh would have found it laughable. He cringed at the thought of the scorn and ridicule she would have received at his hands and the hands of his friends.

_Friends?_ He nearly snorted his disgust. _They were anything but. They would have turned on me the instant I no longer fit in. No. Jason Ruck is a friend. Glen Hodges. Rick McCourtney. Lieutenant Koussa. Moose. I'd trust them all with my life. Hell, I HAVE trusted them with my life and they've never let me down_.

Moose leaned in kiss him again, and he stopped her with a gentle hand against her cheek. She raised her eyebrows inquiringly. She exuded an openness and honesty that had been completely absent from his previous conquests. _Yes, conquests. That's all they were. Nothing more_. It brought an ache to his heart.

_She deserves to know the truth about me_, Trinh decided. _Better I tell her now than she find out on her own_.

He swallowed his discomfort. "There's a lot about me you don't know," he said. "I'm not the man you think I am."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I've done some things I'm not proud of." He would not meet her gaze, afraid of what he might see.

"We've all done things we're not proud of, Dat. We just have to learn from them and move on."

He shook his head. "It's not that easy..."

"These things you've done. If you could go back, would you do them differently?"

"Yes!"

"Then you _are_ the man I think you are."

He was silent for a long time. "You still need to know," he said. "You might change your mind about me."

"What do I need to know?" Moose asked in a firm voice. "That you were an arrogant and obnoxious jerk? That you used crude and vulgar language? That you were disrespectful to your teachers and disruptive in class? That you were always in trouble for fighting? That you had sex with a different girl every week? That you treated them like dirt? Used them, then discarded them when the novelty wore off? Is that what I need to know?"

Trinh was shocked speechless by Moose's brutally accurate assessment of his past behavior. He had never told her-never told anyone on _Chosin_. He could only nod his head in stunned agreement. _How does she know?_

Moose managed to contain the self-satisfied smile that threatened to erupt. "I knew guys like that back in school. I steered clear of them and they pretty much ignored me, other than a few casual insults. So. Is there anything else from your sordid past you want to tell me?"

He shook his head.

"Good. Case closed." She leaned in to kiss him again.

Once again Trinh stopped her. "I can't," he said, his voice not entirely steady, "not now."

Moose pulled back, her eyes searching his face. "Why not?"

"I was... well, you know how I was." He paused, smiling wryly. "I had my pick of girls. I've, uh... I've done it, uh..."

"Had sex," Moose provided, surprising him with her frankness.

"Yeah. I've had sex I-don't-know how many times, just about anywhere you can imagine." He glanced around the workout room and shook his head. "I've done it in the gym. In the locker room. In the parking lot. Even on the roof of the library. I... I want our first time to be different. Better."

This time Moose made no effort to contain her smile. "Oh, Dat, we weren't going to make love; just snuggle a bit. But I'm delighted to hear you intend for our first time to be something special. I can hardly wait!"

Trinh's previous girlfriends had said many things to him, both crude and sensual, but none of them had ever made him blush. He was blushing now. Moose was clearly taking charge of this relationship, and he could only hang on, enjoy the ride, and marvel at the good fortune that gave him another chance. _This time_, he vowed, _I'm gonna do it right._

#####

_**Galloway**_**, en route to intercept point, Rho Virginis sector, 17 Mar 2159**

Lieutenant Commander Hermann Mancusa, CO of the Starfleet corvette _Galloway_, tried not to look too guilty as his Chief Engineer seated himself in the visitor's chair of his office. Of course, a little guilt was entirely appropriate-after all, he'd rescheduled this meeting several times since they'd departed Lalande III five days ago.

He could not in good conscience delay it any longer. Despite the amazing job the Starbase Seven repair crews had done, some of _Galloway's_ extensive battle damage from the recent action in the Teneebian sector remained. As Captain, he wanted to be involved in prioritizing repairs and assigning resources. The excuse that he had been incredibly busy with other tasks and priorities, especially since _Galloway's_ assignment to Task Force 2.1, was wearing a little thin.

"Here's the list, sir." ChEng extended a PADD, which Mancusa accepted wordlessly. A glance was all he needed to confirm that much work remained before _Galloway_ would be one hundred percent operational. But then, the last time she'd been at one hundred percent was shortly before the war. _It's all about the trade-offs_, he mused.

"Bridge to Captain Mancusa."

He reached over to the comm panel and and acknowledged the call, "Go ahead, bridge."

"Captain, We have a ship-to-ship from _Verdun_ actual."

"Put it through," he said. He mouthed the word 'sorry' to his ChEng, who shrugged and sat patiently.

The display on his terminal lit to reveal the head and shoulders of _Verdun's_ CO, Commander Wexler. He was frowning as if displeased, but Mancusa knew that to be his normal expression, having served as his Comms Officer before the war.

Wexler began speaking immediately, preempting Mancusa's greeting, "Hermann, is it just me or is Tucker's plan insane?"

_Uh-oh_, Mancusa thought, _this is not the kind of dirty laundry I want aired in front of subordinates_. He muted the call, giving his ChEng an apologetic look. "Wait outside, Josh. I'll try to keep this short."

Once he was alone, he turned his attention back to the terminal and Wexler's deepening scowl. "Yes sir?" he asked.

"I've been going over Tucker's plan and I have some problems with it. I wanted to get your opinion."

"Well..." he began, speaking slowly while his racing brain tried to make sense of the conversation. _Since when did MY opinion ever matter to you? _ he wondered.

Wexler spoke again, buying Mancusa more time, "If the Romulans take the offered bait, we'll have a force of nine of warbirds heading directly toward us. Nine! If _Chosin's_ timing is off by just a little, we'll be overrun."

"Well..."

"Don't you find it disturbing that our survival depends on the judgment and timing of an inexperienced Captain like Tucker?"

This time Wexler paused long enough for Mancusa to complete a sentence. "Timing _is_ critical for this operation, but I have every confidence _Chosin_ can pull it off. After all, in the Teneebian sector-"

"That was Captain T'Pol," Wexler said, interrupting again. "You may have noticed she is no longer in command."

Mancusa ignored his sarcasm. "Still, _Chosin's_ record is exemplary, and the plan is sound..." his voice trailed off, betraying his uncertainty regarding Wexler's motives.

"_Chosin's_ record under Captain T'Pol was exemplary, but Tucker is an unknown quantity," Wexler said. "As for the plan being sound, do you realize it requires _Chosin_ to maintain a speed of at least warp 6.5 to get into position? And if she doesn't, WE'LL be left holding the bag. It's too risky!"

"_Chosin_ sustained warp 6.8 for over thirty minutes in her last engagement," Mancusa pointed out. "If she hadn't, _Galloway_ and everyone on her-me included-would now be a cloud of radioactive dust."

"Different circumstances and a different Captain," Wexler countered. "I am concerned that Tucker's inexperience will lead to disaster. A disaster that could have been prevented if wiser heads had been involved in the initial planning. I can certainly understand the gratitude you feel for _Chosin_, but you should not allow that to cloud your judgment. Surely you can see the problems inherent in this operation?"

_If you're looking for an ally, you've come to the wrong place_. "Sorry, sir. I don't share your misgivings. If you're concerned about the plan, I suggest you take it up with Captain Tucker. There's nothing I can do."

Much to Mancusa's surprise, Wexler nodded in agreement. "Yes, of course. I'll do just that." He paused briefly before speaking again, "But if I am correct about the plan's shortcomings, I expect you will remember this discussion at the board of inquiry that is sure to follow." Then he signed off.

A look of disgust crossed Mancusa's face. _So THAT'S it. He didn't want an ally. He wanted a witness_. He took a moment to compose himself, then called his ChEng back into the office before immersing himself in the minutia of starship maintenance and repair schedules. The incident was quickly forgotten.

#####

**Continued in Chapter Five**

A/N: I had originally intended for this chapter to include the intercept of the Romulan convoy and subsequent combat action, but the word count had already reached 7800 just to put all the players and pieces in their respective places. Also, it's been so long since my last update that I'm afraid everyone will look at this and say, "Who the hell is Transwarp?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol is tried in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**Note:** An Andorian day is 32 hours. T'Pol has been on _Amarith_ for eight Earth days, which is six Andorian days. To avoid confusion, all time durations are specified in Earth units, even when Andorians are using them.

**FIVE**

_**Amarith**_**, en route to Andoria, 20 Mar 2159**

Special Agent Thaleen leaned back in his seat and scowled at the data terminal. This was the part of police work he hated the most: the many forms, reports, and summaries required by the legal system and its sustaining bureaucracy. His third draft of a dispatch to headquarters filled the screen, but it was no better than the first two. Normally he could emphasize some aspect of an arrest that would reflect favorably on himself or his abilities, but not this time. There was nothing positive about it. Not only had T'Pol turned herself in while he sat uselessly in his quarters, but during the actual arrest he'd been taken down – by a human! – and pinned to the floor. He'd been threatened with a stunner by an enlisted guardsman, and threatened with incarceration by the ship's Captain. His prisoner was now free to wander the ship at will. Unsupervised. No, there was nothing about this arrest he cared to highlight to his superiors at the Imperial Investigative Office.

As if that weren't enough, it would be at least another two weeks before he'd be able to deliver his prisoner to the proper authorities. Engine problems, a gleeful Akani had informed him. Thaleen was absolutely certain there was nothing wrong with the engines. He was just as certain he did not possess the technical knowledge to prove that.

The door-buzzer sounded, and Thaleen saved his work. He crossed the room, opening the door to find Captain Akani smiling in the passageway outside.

"Thaleen! Good, you are here."

"_Special Agent_ Thaleen," he corrected, frost in his voice.

Akani's smile did not fade. "Yes, yes, of course, Special Agent Thaleen. If you are available, I would have you join me and my officers in the Captain's mess this evening."

Thaleen's face registered his surprise at the offer. Since departing Laland III, he – along with _Amarith's_ officers – had been taking the evening meal with the crew while Akani entertained T'Pol in the Captain's mess. In Thaleen's estimation it was all very improper, but hardly surprising given the backward region Akani was from.

"I am available," Thaleen said. The crew's mess tended to be rather boisterous during meals. It would be good to dine in a more refined setting for a change.

"Splendid!" Akani said. "You should understand Commander T'Pol will also be there, yes? My officers can learn much from her, much of value. She has agreed to speak with them this night."

Thaleen's expression hardened. "There is nothing I care to learn from a Vulcan criminal."

"Then nothing is exactly what you will learn," Akani said, unsurprised. "The invitation stands; you may attend or not as you wish." He favored Thaleen with another smile as he left.

Thaleen returned to the terminal and recalled the document he'd saved. He stared absently at the screen, but his mind was elsewhere. _Perhaps Akani is right_, he reflected. _There does seem to be something… something __**different**__... about this Vulcan_.

As a criminal investigator, he prided himself on his ability to quickly and accurately assess people, yet the Vulcan T'Pol was an enigma to him. In his own defense, trying to read Vulcans was usually pointless, as they all seemed to wear an impenetrable mask of smug superiority.

And then it hit him: His prisoner completely lacked that mask; completely lacked the condescending attitude he had come to expect from all Vulcans. She possessed the cool Vulcan reserve, but none of the corresponding Vulcan arrogance.

_This bears further study_, he thought. _Perhaps I will eat in the Captain's mess tonight_. Of course, the opportunity to escape the unruly crowd down in the crew's mess had absolutely no bearing on his decision.

_#####_

_**Chosin**_**, convoy intercept point, Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

_Chosin_ sat at a dead stop in the interstellar void, sensors straining to detect any sign of the Romulan convoy making its steady way from Rho Virginis. Lead elements of the convoy would be entering passive sensor range within the hour, if course and speed projections held true. _Chosin's_ crew was taking full advantage of the time that remained, calmly and methodically preparing the ship – and themselves – for the coming engagement.

In Main Engineering, the soft thrum of the idling warp core provided a sharp contrast to the frenetic activity of the past three days, when _Chosin_ had run at flank speed to get ahead of the Romulan convoy. Her sweat-soaked engineers endured the blast-furnace heat and ear-splitting roar as they pushed the engines to perform at levels that would have astounded the original designers.

Their efforts paid off. Running at warp 6.6 the entire three days, _Chosin_ reached the intercept point well in advance of the convoy, with no signs that her presence had been detected.

All that remained was the waiting, and Lieutenant Commander Saracco hated to wait. She prowled the engine room – _her_ engine room now – moving from station to station as she checked and re-checked every system. Her mind whirled as she reviewed processes and procedures, mentally steeling herself for the coming fight. It would be her first combat action as _Chosin's_ Chief Engineer, and she fought down the anxiety accompanying that realization. She would be ready. She _had_ to be.

She stepped up alongside Petty Officer Levinson on the warp core control platform and glanced at the consoles. Indicators were normal and status lights green. The engines were currently idling, but her engineers – _her_ engineers! – could have them roaring at full throttle within seconds of receiving the order.

Before the war, running the engines up from idle to max would have required at least five minutes, all the while observing a complex set of procedures to ensure engine parameters stayed within safe levels. The demands of war had replaced many of those old safety procedures, while technological advancements had obsoleted the rest.

Saracco felt a surge of pride. Her engineers were good. _Damned_ good. _Which should surprise no one_, she reflected. _After all, we were trained by the best_. Still, she couldn't stop herself from looking over Levinson's shoulder, even though it had probably been less than thirty minutes since her last check. If he felt any irritation at her micro-management, he managed to hide it.

Saracco stepped off the warp core platform, intent on another check of the electrical distribution switchboard, but she noticed Chief Verley leaning on the bulkhead just inside Main Engineering. He watched her with an odd half-smile on his face. She changed direction and he straightened at her approach.

"Yes, Chief?" she asked.

"May I have a moment, Commander? In your office?"

She nodded, leading the way. Verley followed her in, closing the door behind him. "You need to relax, ma'am," he said, without preamble. "You're pacing the engine room like a caged tiger."

Saracco smiled, but it came out looking rather weak. "I don't feel like a tiger," she admitted. "More like a mouse. I'm scared as hell that I'm going to screw this up."

Verley shrugged. "So be scared, just try not to act like you are. It's bad for morale. You'll do fine once the shooting starts."

"When it starts I'll be too busy to be scared."

"Exactly," Verley agreed. "So don't worry. In less than an hour, the rommie convoy should be in sensor range, then the waiting will be over."

Another pang of anxiety shot through Saracco at the mention of the convoy's imminent arrival, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Want some advice, ma'am?"

She nodded. "Or a stiff drink."

"I can scare up a stiff drink," Verley chuckled, "but only AFTER we dispatch this convoy. In the meantime, I recommend you stay right here at your desk until we go to General Quarters."

"And do what?" Saracco exclaimed.

"Doesn't matter. Work crossword puzzles. Read a book. Just don't go pacing around engineering like a tiger. OR a mouse."

"Okay. I'll park my butt at my desk and stay out of everyone's way. But it isn't going to be easy." She smiled again, but this time the smile reached all the way to her eyes.

Verley stood, satisfied with the result of his visit. "One more thing, Commander."

"Yes?"

"I've served with a dozen Chief Engineers over the course of my career. You're better than them all, save one, and we both know who _that_ is."

Lieutenant Commander Luisa Saracco was still grinning a full five minutes after Verley had left.

#####

_**Amarith**_**, en route to Andoria, 20 Mar 2159**

Thaleen took a seat at the table in the Captain's mess and watched quietly as _Amarith's_ officers arrived for dinner. Like all Andorians, respect and admiration for the Imperial Guard had been ingrained into him from an early age. To serve as a Guardsman was something most children aspired to at one time or another, and he had been no exception. The realities of the selection process eventually dashed any hopes he'd had of ever being one of the select few to wear a Guard uniform. He'd been disappointed of course, but not bitterly so, and the experience had done nothing to lessen his high esteem for the Guard.

He had long since lost that youthful idealism, a casualty of his years spent policing society's sordid underbelly, but he could still feel stirrings of that childhood awe as he sat among them – officers of the Imperial Guard, Andoria's finest, protectors of the Mother World from an implacably hostile universe.

It was difficult to reconcile such deeply-held feelings of respect with their apparent acceptance of the Vulcan criminal T'Pol, but if his years of police work had taught him anything, it was that threats to society could originate anywhere; even from the vaunted ranks of the Imperial Guard.

Captain Akani entered the room at that moment, the Vulcan T'Pol at his side, and the background hum of conversation died as the ship's officers all stood in unison. Thaleen was under no obligation to observe Guard protocols, but he also stood. To do otherwise would have made him appear rude and churlish, reinforcing the Captain's already-low opinion of him.

Akani paused at the door to survey the room before leading the Vulcan to her chair. She stood patiently while he walked to his customary place at the table's head, and Thaleen's lips compressed in disapproval. Akani had placed her at the foot of the table, the traditional position of honor. That seat, directly opposite the Captain's, was reserved for visiting dignitaries, or in their absence, the ship's Executive Officer. Certainly not accused criminals. Especially not _Vulcan_ criminals.

Thaleen threw the XO a quick glance. If he was upset at having his position usurped, his body language did not reveal it.

"Be seated," Akani said, and a stir filled the room as his officers obeyed the order. "Commander T'Pol of Starfleet will dine with us this evening, yes? And she will talk. She will speak of her experience commanding _Chosin_. Of fighting the Romulans. No Coalition captain – no, not one! – has destroyed more enemy vessels. Forty-four! Next closest is our own Captain Javvan. He destroyed twelve, before his ship _Karali_ was lost at 6 Virginis. Lost with all hands." Akani paused to let his words sink in. "Listen well and ask questions," he commanded, "many questions." Then he yielded the floor to T'Pol.

While they ate, she spoke of ship and weapons capabilities, of tactics and countermeasures. Much of what she said was meaningless to Thaleen, so he concentrated instead on the interactions between _Amarith's_ officers and the Vulcan.

What he saw was completely unexpected.

Here was a Vulcan lecturing a group of Andorian officers on the finer points of ship-handling. If ever there was a forum designed to highlight Vulcan arrogance, this was it. Yet she spoke to the assembled officers as though speaking to her equals. She gave respectful consideration to their questions, and answered them honestly and without condescension. Her attitude and demeanor were so completely at odds with everything he knew to be true about Vulcans that he found himself wondering if she were putting on an act for his benefit. He hastily dropped the notion; he prided himself on his ability to detect deception and dissembling regardless of species, and the idea that he could be fooled in that manner was far more difficult to believe than that a Vulcan could be humble and unassuming.

#####

As the evening progressed, all questions regarding the arcane details of ship-to-ship combat were answered, and the conversation evolved into a wide-ranging discussion of other matters.

Thaleen's interest was sparked by a pointed question from a young Lieutenant two seats down: "Commander, some of us are concerned about the balance of power following the war. The Humans have shown themselves to be extremely capable warriors and Starfleet has emerged as a potent fighting force. Combined, the Vulcan and Human fleets would constitute the preeminent power in this quadrant. Is Andoria fighting against Romulan conquest only to face Vulcan conquest after the war?"

"No," T'Pol answered. "Vulcan has no such aims, nor would Earth's government permit Starfleet to be used in such a way."

Thaleen could not let that statement go unchallenged. "Commander," he said, placing unnecessary emphasis on her title, "You expect us to believe that Vulcan will give Earth a choice in the matter? Earth has always done Vulcan's bidding. That will not change."

"It has already changed," T'Pol replied. "Humans have discovered they can stand on their own in this quadrant. They no longer need Vulcan protection and no longer seek Vulcan counsel."

"It is common knowledge that Earth's government is controlled by Vulcan. Humans will do as their Vulcan _advisors_ direct." Thaleen inflected the word 'advisors' in such a way that it was clear to everyone in the room that he meant 'masters'.

"It is not common knowledge to the Humans." T'Pol paused and glanced around the room. "Most of you have fought alongside Humans since the war's beginning. Do you truly believe they are controlled by Vulcan? Do you truly believe they could be controlled by _anyone_?"

T'Pol answered her own question. "No. If Vulcan attempted such a thing, Humans would fight. And they would win."

"And where would _your_ loyalties lie in such a fight?" Thaleen asked.

T'Pol's answer was quick and firm. "With the Humans. With Starfleet."

A stir swept the room at her answer, but subsided quickly as she continued. "It will never come to that. Vulcan has no designs on Empire."

"There are a hundred years of history disputing your claim," Thaleen noted. "You cannot expect Andoria to overlook Vulcan treaty violations. Vulcan acts of aggression. Vulcan lies and distortions. You cannot expect us to trust Vulcan."

"You can trust me," T'Pol said, looking directly at Thaleen.

An incredulous Thaleen could not contain a sharp burst of laughter. "You? You are an accused criminal."

"My legal status has no bearing on the truth of my words," T'Pol said. "The truth is that Vulcan has behaved dishonorably toward Andoria. Vulcan has violated its treaties and acted with unwarranted aggression. Vulcan has mistreated Andorian prisoners. The Vulcan High Command lied about its actions and intents, both to Andoria and to the Vulcan people. Your complaints are valid and your suspicions are reasonable. Would you agree to that?"

"Ahh… yes," Thaleen answered, completely nonplussed at finding himself in agreement with a Vulcan. Then again, this particular Vulcan had been nonplussing him more or less continuously since he'd taken her into custody.

"It is different now," T'Pol continued. "The High Command under Administrator V'Las was dissolved five years ago after he attempted to start a war with Andoria. V'Las vanished shortly thereafter and has never been found. We may never learn the full extent of his treachery or the motivations behind his actions, but that is no longer important. That is in the past."

"The current Vulcan government is nothing like the old. The power that V'Las held has been decentralized, the High Command replaced by a High Council. First Minister T'Pau was one of the few Vulcans to oppose V'Las and his policies. As a result she was branded a criminal and hunted ruthlessly. You had no reason to trust Administrator V'Las, but you have every reason to trust Minister T'Pau. She will deal with Andoria honorably and in good faith."

"So you say," Thaleen remarked.

"So I believe," she replied, and Thaleen could detect no deception in her words or manner. He was not quite ready to acknowledge that Vulcan could change so much in so short a time, but there was no doubt in his mind that T'Pol believed it to be true.

T'Pol shifted her gaze to the young officer who had asked the original question. "Your apprehension is understandable, Lieutenant. Once the Romulans are defeated, it is natural to assume that things will return to the way they were before the war, that the old enmities and hostilities will simply resume. It is certainly a possible outcome. It may even be a probable outcome – old prejudices are deeply ingrained and easily inflamed. But the war has shown us that it need not be that way. Have we not proven we can live together and work together? Are we not stronger in alliance than alone? So much has been sacrificed for this Coalition; is it not worth preserving?"

T'Pol paused to take a sip of water. The room was silent as everyone considered her poignant questions, and once more Thaleen was struck by T'Pol's apparent sincerity. _Apparent? No, actual_, he amended. _I would know if she were not sincere_.

He had never been a supporter of the Coalition, believing as he did that the magnitude of the threat Romulus posed to Andoria had been vastly inflated. Still, he could not help but be impressed by the eloquence of her arguments and the calm passion of her words. He also had to admit, based on what he'd overheard from _Amarith's_ officers and crew, that the Romulan threat might be more significant than he'd initially believed. Such an error was a difficult pill to swallow, but he was a trained investigator and would go where the facts led him, no matter how uncomfortable the journey.

T'Pol returned her water glass to the table and folded her hands in her lap. "Humans believe the Coalition is essential if we are to build a just and orderly society in this quadrant, and I agree with them. Preserving and strengthening this Coalition is every bit as important as defeating the Romulans. Do not let old hatreds tear apart what we've built. Do not let the blood we've spilled and the tears we've shed be in vain."

"What tears have _you_ shed, Vulcan?" Thaleen challenged.

"Why do you ask?" T'Pol shot back. "Do you presume that Vulcans feel no grief because we do not cry? That the pain of loss does not touch us? If so, you presume too much."

Thaleen opened his mouth to rebuke her, but… but something in her words gave him pause. Her voice had not changed – she spoke with the same calm and reasonable tone she'd been using all night – but there was an edge to it. An edge of… of feeling? From a Vulcan? _This evening could not get any stranger_, he thought. He was wrong.

"Since this war began, I have… I have lost much," T'Pol said haltingly, and this time her tone _was_ different, her voice softer. "At this very moment _Chosin_ is preparing to intercept a Romulan convoy. My ship and my crew are at risk. My husband is in danger. I cannot help them – cannot be with them – because I am _here_… because I am on my way to an Andorian prison. This very night, I could lose them all. Everyone that I hold dear…" T'Pol shut her eyes and took several deep breaths to steady herself.

When her eyes opened, she was once more the cool and composed Vulcan. "I have given up a great deal to preserve this Coalition. Not just my freedom, but command of my ship, the camaraderie of my crew, and the comfort of my mate. I ask only that each of you do everything in your power to help it endure."

For a timeless moment no one spoke, then _Amarith's_ Executive Officer stood and slowly looked around the room, glaring ominously. "What are we doing?" he snarled, antennae quivering, "_What are we doing?_ Our comrades go to fight at Rho Virginis while we run like frightened children? We take Commander T'Pol to be imprisoned for crimes she did not commit? Where is the honor in that? Where is _our_ honor?"

An approving murmur swept the room, and when the XO next spoke, he was looking directly at Captain Akani. "I cannot be a part of this travesty. We must turn this ship around. We must return Commander T'Pol to her ship and crew. We must rejoin our fleet before the Romulans are engaged. _That_ is where we belong: Fighting the enemy alongside our fellow Guardsmen. Alongside our Coalition allies. Not running away with our tails between our legs at the bidding of our misbegotten Chancellor!"

"No!"

T'Pol shot to her feet, her emphatic response startling everyone in the room. "No," she continued in a more moderate tone, "You must take me to Andoria. Many in the Guard would not understand why you would aid an accused criminal. They would not understand why you would violate your oaths and disobey your orders. They would be honor-bound to oppose you. The Imperial Guard would be fractured by internal divisions, officer pitted against officer, ship against ship. Only the Romulans would benefit from such a thing. I implore you to do your duty, no matter how distasteful you may find it."

"Commander T'Pol is correct," Akani said reluctantly, "though I wish she were not. We will follow our orders, yes? We will do our duty. It is the only way."

"Thank you, Captain," T'Pol said. She turned to the XO; still standing after his impassioned outburst. "Commander Sharl, be at peace. Your honor is intact in my eyes."

Thaleen was rocked to his very core by the events he had just witnessed; his world turned completely upside down. _Is everything I have ever believed a lie_? he wondered. _Could I have been so completely mistaken about so much_? Nothing he had seen tonight supported his former world-view. Nothing!

In the face of such uncertainty, there was really only one thing he could do. Only one thing _any_ Special Agent of the Imperial Investigative Office would do. He had to ferret out the pertinent facts and distill them down to the truth. It was what he did and he was good at it. And if the facts showed that he'd been wrong?

_So be it_.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, convoy intercept point, Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

Trinh entered the launch bay to find Moose sitting on the deck, her back against one of the six-packs that filled the bay in four neat rows. She wore a contemplative look on her face.

He strolled over and slid to the deck next to her. "I thought I might find you here," he said. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Hey, Dat." She acknowledged his presence, but her gaze never wavered from a point on the far bulkhead. "I was just thinking about after the war."

"After the war," Trinh repeated.

Something in his tone caused Moose to shift her head and look at him. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Trinh replied, "It's just…"

"Just..?"

"It's just amazing to me we can even _think_ about after the war. How long have you been on _Chosin_?"

"Since last August. Umm, seven months."

"I've been on-board since she launched. Back then, no one thought about after the war. No one really believed there would BE an after the war." Trinh shook his head. "We've come a long way," he murmured.

Moose placed her hand over his, but she didn't speak.

"So what are you planning? Trinh asked. "For after the war?"

"Promise you won't laugh?'

"Absolutely not!" he replied, but there was the hint of a smile on his face.

"I'm thinking I want to be an astrophysicist."

"Oh." Trinh was genuinely surprised. "An astrophysicist?"

"Yes. I'll bet you didn't know that Khart-lan studied astrophysics. Among other things."

"Uh, no. I didn't know that."

"Yeah. She came by the ship's laundry last month and saw the book I was reading. We talked for a long time, about star formation and stuff. Well, she talked and I listened. She's probably forgotten more about it than I'll ever know. Anyway, I think Khart-lan _misses_ being a scientist. I can't say why; it's just a feeling I have."

"She _was_ the Science Officer on _Enterprise_," Trinh pointed out.

Moose nodded, "I know. She gave me some good advice, too. Said I needed to brush up on my math. And she... and she..." her voice trailed into silence.

She wiped at her eyes, and Trinh gave her hand a comforting squeeze. "It's okay. We all miss her."

Moose nodded, taking a few moments to compose herself. "She said she'd help me with my math... and that she'd write cover letters for my applications to the Astrophysics programs. Can you imagine that, Dat? Me, with recommendations from Captain T'Pol? Captain _T'Pol?_"

Trinh was captivated by the look of wonder on her face. "Actually, I can," he said. "You didn't waste your time in school like I did."

This time it was Moose squeezing Trinh's hand. "What about you?" she asked. "What will you do after the war?"

Trinh shrugged. "Haven't really thought about it. I guess I'll stay in Starfleet; I'm a pretty good helmsman you know."

"Oh, I don't know," Moose teased, "it gets pretty bumpy back here when _you're_ at the helm."

"Maybe so, but I've managed to keep us out of the way of some pretty nasty stuff. Look, if you have a problem with my piloting, just tell me. You don't need to jump off the ship."

Moose giggled at his reference to her being set adrift in the Teneebian sector. "I think we've figured out a way to prevent any more unscheduled spacewalks," she said, motioning with her chin to the bulkhead by the launch bay door, where a neatly-coiled tether cable hung from a hook. Trinh could see a faint orange glow coming from strips of luminescent tape wrapped around the cable at eight-inch intervals.

He also noticed something odd about the torpedoes strapped to the six-packs. "Is it my imagination, or are those torpedoes... longer?" he asked.

"Good eye," Moose remark. "It's the new warheads. They're about half a meter longer than the old ones."

"Another surprise for the rommies?"

"Not really. These are actually _less_ capable. There's a Coalition-wide shortage of antimatter, and most of it's reserved for warp drives. Not much left for torpedo warheads."

"Then what's in _these_," Trinh asked, tapping the torpedo he was leaning against with his thumb.

"Fifty kilos of uranium."

Trinh's eyes widened in alarm. "Uranium? Should we be in here..?"

"Relax. They're well-shielded. The damn things are a lot heavier, though. Heavier and harder to push. And they have a lower yield – about a megaton, versus forty megatons for an antimatter warhead."

"Atomic warheads," Trinh said, shaking his head. "It's like we're back in the twentieth century."

"They'll get the job done," Moose said, "plus we still have some torpedoes with antimatter warheads in the magazines."

"Not to mention the best damn helmsman in the quadrant," he said.

"And the most modest," she added, with a snort of amusement.

Trinh shrugged. "If you've got it, flaunt it."

"What about the Captain?" Moose asked, turning serious again. "This will be _Chosin's_ first fight without Khart-lan. Will he... Is he..?"

Trinh completed her question. "Is he up to the job?"

"Yeah. Is he?"

"He is. Khart-lan's greatest strength is execution – she knows exactly what to do and precisely when to do it. Based on the simulations we've run on the bridge, Captain Tucker has that same gift."

"Based on simulations?"

"Hey, don't forget the Captain is a veteran of the Xindi campaign. And he was on _Enterprise_ during the Vulcan uprising. This will not be his first combat action in the big chair. _Chosin_ is in good hands."

Moose seemed unconvinced, and Trinh decided to try a different tack. "You do understand that there's more to our success than Khart-lan, right? She's good – _very_ good – but she's just a part of the story."

Trinh's job on the bridge gave him a perspective into every aspect of the ship's operation. From his unique vantage point, he could see – more clearly than most – how the contributions from various departments and personnel combined to result in _Chosin's_ astonishing successes. He had no trouble at all reciting a detailed list of facts to support his claim.

"Our engineers work miracles with the warp drives," he said, "those extra tenths of a warp point they can somehow squeeze out have made a difference more than once. Same with the torpedo techs. How they muscle those mark two torpedoes from the cargo hold up two decks and down some very narrow passageways to reload the magazines is just... well, it's just incredible. Then there's Chief Verley. He has a knack for planning, but he can also pick an operation apart and expose its weaknesses like nobody else I've seen. Commander Graham plays the weapons console like it's a musical instrument, and Lieutenant Koussa is just as good on the sensor console."

Trinh continued, warming to his topic, "In fact, Koussa seems to know what targeting data is needed before Weapons even asks. It may only save a few seconds, but with inbound torpedoes a few seconds is eternity. Our damage control teams have kept critical systems on-line which should never have survived the hits they took. And don't forget the Board of Dirty Tricks and all the innovations from that: subspace chaff, additional consoles on the bridge, torpedo six-packs –"

"I was there for that one," Moose said.

"Right. You get the idea. And did I mention we also have the best damn helmsman in the quadrant?"

"Puh-LEASE," Moose groaned, "give it a rest."

Trinh chuckled. "Sorry, couldn't resist. Anyway, we're going to do just fine."

"You're right, of course. We'll do fine, even with _your_ ham-fisted touch at the –"

"_This is not a drill. General quarters, general quarters. All hands man your battle stations. This is not a drill._"

Trinh hopped to his feet in a single fluid motion and extended a hand to Moose. She grasped it tightly while he pulled her upright.

He attempted to disengage his hand, but Moose wouldn't let go. "Gotta get to the bridge," Trinh said, loud enough to be heard over the clamor of the GQ alarm.

"I know." She pulled him into a hug, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. He returned the kiss, just as quick, but on her lips.

"Be careful," he said, making it sound like a command.

She nodded and watch as he disappeared through the door at a run. She shrugged into her pressure suit, then began removing the cargo straps securing the six-packs to the deck.

#####

"Captain's on the bridge."

"Kill that alarm," Trip said, sliding into the command chair. "What've we got?"

"The Task Force main body was just detected by the rommie convoy," Lieutenant Walder said from the communications board. "_Yorktown_ broke comm silence to let us know. We're getting their tactical data feed now."

"Put it on screen."

The star field on the forward view screen blanked out, replaced by the tactical situation as seen from the five ships of the main body. Trip took several moments to study the display. The Romulan convoy was exactly where it should have been, on a heading toward _Chosin's_ current position. The main body of Task Force 2.1 was overtaking them from behind.

"Any sign they've seen _Chosin_?"

"No sir."

Trip turned to Lieutenant Koussa. "What's the status of our countermeasure drones?"

"All green. They're deployed in formation and waiting for the command to go to warp."

The elements of his plan were falling into place nicely. "We'll let the convoy get a little closer before we show ourselves," Trip announced. "Give 'em ten minutes."

"Aye, sir."

Trip unstowed the pressure suit stored behind his command chair and began pulling it on. "Leave your helmets off until we go to warp. Might as well be comfortable while we wait."

#####

**Romulan cargo ship **_**Pallaix, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

Captain Drevok made his way through the old cargo ship's cramped confines and narrow passageways, responding to a summons from the bridge. He moved with unusual haste, propelled forward by the urgency in the voice of his normally-laconic First Mate.

When he strode onto the bridge, his eyes cut immediately to the status display on the main view screen. Finding no evidence of any obvious problems, he turned to the bridge's only other occupant. "What is it, S'Lonn?"

First Mate S'Lonn stood next to the comm station, his care-worn face lined with extra furrows of concern. "The Convoy Commander sent out an all-ships message. A Coalition force has been detected closing on the convoy from behind."

Drevok joined S'Lonn at the comm station and read the text of the message for himself. The details were sketchy at best, little more than the number and type of Coalition warships. Nothing as useful as their current locations, or even their headings and speeds. He knew the convoy's military escorts had all those details, and more. He knew they were exchanging full-bandwidth sensor scans across their tactical data channels, each warship seeing everything detected by the sensors of the other escorts. He knew this because he had once been an officer in the Romulan Star Navy.

"Any sign of them on our own sensors?" he asked.

S'Lonn's lips quirked, not quite forming a smile. "No. They are well beyond range of our sensors. _Pallaix_ is strong and steady, but she lacks a raptor's sharp eyes."

Like Drevok, S'Lonn had once served in the Praetor's Navy. He knew quite well the difference between the powerful sensor arrays of a warship and the inexpensive, barely-adequate sensor suite that _Pallaix_ carried.

"The Convoy Commander has ordered a speed increase to warp 4.4," S'Lonn said. Then he added, "It will not be enough to outrun them."

"No. We will not outrun them," Drevok agreed. "There will be a fight."

"Our escorts have them outnumbered," S'Lonn observed.

He knew the unspoken thought behind S'Lonn's seemingly obvious statement, for it mirrored his own: _No Coalition commander would pursue a superior force without a reasonable assurance of victory_.

Drevok was a civilian, Master of the unarmed cargo ship _Pallaix_. Despite his prior service in the Navy, he had no access to any official channels or confidential reports.

But he did have eyes and ears. Shortly after the war began, his ship had been pressed into the Praetor's service to carry war materials and supplies between Romulus and Rho Virginis. He had personally seen the broken ships limping back from the front for repairs. He had seen the steady stream of fresh-faced young fighters heading in the other direction, replacements for those lost in the fierce battles with the Coalition. He had seen the haunted looks in the eyes of the enlisted ratings recently returned from the front. While waiting in the bars and taverns near the loading docks, he'd overheard their conversations. They spoke of a ruthless and determined enemy, an enemy who exacted a brutal price for every foothold gained. An enemy who seemed to anticipated their every move, inflicting maximum casualties before melting away to regroup.

The evidence of his eyes and ears was in stark contrast to the public news bulletins released by the government, bulletins that touted a constant stream of victories by the Romulan Star Navy over a demoralized Coalition rabble. And now this demoralized rabble was apparently on its way to mount an attack against Rho Virginis, deep within Romulan space.

Drevok read through the message a second time. Three Starfleet frigates and two corvettes were closing on the convoy from behind. They were no match for the nine warbirds escorting the convoy, and could not possibly hope to prevail, yet still they came. He had little doubt that this seemingly mismatched Coalition force would somehow defeat the convoy's escort. And if the escorting warships were defeated, Drevok knew what their final order to the convoy would be: _Self-destruct._

"Well, S'Lonn. It appears our little enterprise has reached its end," Drevok said.

"Perhaps not," was S'Lonn's terse reply.

Drevok threw him a sharp glance, but S'Lonn's expression revealed nothing. As usual.

Their 'little enterprise' was something Drevok had dreamed up when he and S'Lonn were both still officers in the Praetor's service. Neither of them had enjoyed the Navy, lacking the ruthless drive needed to advance, and wearied by the constant vigilance needed to protect themselves from the ambitions of their subordinates. It had been Drevok's idea to pool their resources, purchase a small freighter, and go into business for themselves. S'Lonn and a couple of like-minded officers had jumped at the opportunity.

It had been difficult at first, but they persevered and eventually built a lucrative business carrying luxury items to the outlying colonies. Then the war came and their handsome profits vanished. They found themselves pressed into the Praetor's service, paid flat rates that barely covered their operating expenses. Even so, Drevok had been content. There may not have been much in the way of profit, but he was still doing what he loved, surrounded by people he counted as friends. People he trusted not to stab him in the back or undermine his authority to get ahead, as was the norm in the Navy.

"You think our escorts will be victorious?" Drevok asked, not quite believing that S'Lonn could see a positive outcome to the situation.

"No," S'Lonn answered, "Starfleet possesses the initiative; they would not attack without some advantage."

"Then it IS over. A defeat can only end one way."

"Perhaps not," S'Lonn repeated. "Perhaps there is an alternative." He fixed Drevok with an unwavering gaze.

Drevok stared back, trying to read the meaning behind his old friend's enigmatic expression. "What alternative?"

"We defect."

The color drained from Drevok's face. _Treason!_ Years of training and decades of upbringing conspired to create an automatic, unthinking revulsion to the idea. He had never been anything but a loyal Romulan, never thought of himself in any other way. Even his discontent and dissatisfaction with conditions in the Navy had not caused him to question his loyalty to the Praetor or his devotion to the realm.

Treason. Such an ugly word. _But so is __death_.

Drevok took a deep breath. "How?" he asked. _Does the road to treason begin with a single question?_

"There is a self-destruct mechanism next to the antimatter containment field," S'Lonn said. "It can be activated by a circuit from the bridge."

"I am aware of this," Drevok said. "It is common knowledge." Every Romulan vessel, civilian or military, was equipped with such a device.

"What is not common knowledge is the existence of an additional circuit, one that can be activated remotely by a coded sequence. The Comms Officer on every Romulan warship has access to that sequence. _Pallaix_ can be destroyed at the press of a button."

"And you were a Comms Officer," Drevok noted.

S'Lonn's lips quirked again into that not-quite-smile, one of the few expressions Drevok had ever seen on his face. _If I didn't know better, I'd think he was one of our Vulcan cousins_, Drevok thought. "So we find and disable this other circuit?"

"No. If _Pallaix_ is not destroyed, they will find out. They will know we still live. They will know what we've done. They will not stop hunting us until we are found and killed. There is no safe place anywhere in the quadrant. Not from the Tal Shiar."

Icy fingers gripped Drevok's heart at the mention of the Tal Shiar, the Romulan Secret Police. They had a reputation for cold, efficient cruelty that he preferred never to experience first-hand. "What choice have we? If we do not disable the self destruct, we are dead anyway."

"We do not disable it. We _delay_ it. We set it to alert us when the activation sequence is received, giving us sufficient time to get away in the escape pod. When _Pallaix_ is destroyed, they will believe us destroyed along with her."

Drevok pondered the plan, seeing its merit. "And if they do happen to notice our escape pod, they will be too busy to act before they, too, are destroyed, taking our secret with them."

"Yes. Once the fighting is over, Starfleet will pick us up," S'Lonn concluded.

The idea of being in Coalition hands gave Drevok pause. "And then what?" he asked.

"Then we will be alive."

#####

_**Galloway, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

"Captain, the rommie convoy just increased speed to warp 4.4, no change in heading."

Captain Mancusa glanced at the view screen, confirming what he had just heard. "Any word from _Chosin_?" he asked.

"No sir. She's still maintaining comm silence."

Mancusa nodded. That was actually a good sign. If for any reason _Chosin_ had been unable to get into position, she would have broken comm silence and ordered the Task Force to abort the mission. Otherwise, she avoided any subspace transmissions that might prematurely reveal her position.

The closer they got to the convoy without hearing from _Chosin_, the more likely it became that the plan was succeeding. Mancusa fervently hoped there would be no glitches. He had no desire to endure any I-told-you-so's from _Verdun's_ Commander Wexler. _Or worse._

"Uh, hang on sir..."

Mancusa looked over at his Communication Officer, who was staring intently at the comm panel.

"It's _Chosin_. They've gone to warp. We're receiving tactical data."

"On screen."

Mancusa took one look, and grinned broadly. It was exactly as Tucker had planned. The rommie convoy was neatly bracketed, caught between _Chosin_ and the five ships of Task Force 2.1. Caught between a rock and a hard place.

_Looks like I'll be saying I-told-you-so to Commander Wexler_, Mancusa thought with satisfaction.

#####

**Romulan Fast Transport **_**Veka'an**__**, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

Prime Consul Galtan of the Imperial Praetorium strolled onto the bridge and sat in the chair that had been reserved for her. She knew Captain Dhiel would prefer that she were someplace else, but he would never dare suggest it. Not to _her,_ consort and advisor to the Praetor himself.

She looked around, and despite knowing nothing of ships or their operation, could immediately sense that something was amiss. She watched Captain Dhiel consult with his sensor operator then scurry to his Executive Officer. He was visibly upset.

_Should I be worried?_ she wondered. She fervently hoped that the source of this consternation was not something that would delay her return to Romulus. After weeks of living in the primitive quarters at the Fleet Repair Facility on Rho Virginis, she was more than ready to return to her opulent rooms in the guest wing of the Callium – just down the hall from the Praetor's own residence.

"Is something wrong, Captain?" she asked, nervously fingering her medallion of office.

Captain Dhiel looked up from his hushed conversation with the XO. "Consul Galtan, Coalition forces are moving to intercept the convoy. Thirteen Starfleet warships are ahead of us, and five are closing from behind."

A wave of fear swept over her, and she had to swallow repeatedly before her words would escape her suddenly-constricted throat. "What... what is being done?"

"We are turning to attack the five vessels behind us. The Convoy Commander believes our military escort can overpower them before the thirteen frigates are in range. Our escorts will then delay the enemy's main body while we escape."

Consul Galtan struggled to regain her composure. It certainly _sounded_ like a good plan. _Then why does Captain Dhiel seem so troubled?_

#####

**Romulan cargo ship **_**Pallaix, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

S'Lonn slid from the access panel below the warp core and wiped grime from his hands onto his equally grimy shirt. Ship's Engineer D'Tal waited nearby, anxious to hear S'Lonn's report, but S'Lonn would not be rushed. He cast about for a rag, discarding several before finding one that was marginally cleaner than his shirt, and began wiping his hands in earnest.

"Well..?" D'Tal prompted. S'Lonn had a well-deserved reputation for reticence but would sometimes responded if nudged.

"It is done," S'Lonn said, and D'Tal sagged in relief, the tension draining from his body. In a surprising display of loquaciousness S'Lonn continued his report, volunteering unsolicited details. "They tried to hide the secondary circuit by running it over the power lines, but I located the high-pass filter where the signal is extracted. I was able to add a repeater with a two-minute delay and tie it into the ship's alarm system. It will warn us once the activation sequence is received."

"You realize the escape pod will require nearly thirty seconds to reach a safe distance from the warp core," D'Tal stated. He had done _that_ calculation immediately after S'Lonn and Drevok had approached him with their mad scheme. Few people who had never worked in a ship's engine room could fully appreciate the unthinkable devastation unleashed by an exploding warp core. A typical torpedo warhead contained half a kilogram of antimatter. _Pallaix's_ warp core contained a hundred kilograms, the explosive equivalent of _two_ _hundred_ torpedoes.

The self-destruct mechanism that S'Lonn had modified contained a small amount of chemical explosive. It had nowhere near the explosive power needed to destroy the whole ship, but it didn't need to. Just breach the containment field and let the matter-antimatter reaction take care of the rest.

"That leaves ninety seconds to get to the pod," S'Lonn replied. "It is enough. Delay the self-destruct by more than two minutes and it will give them time to take other measures. Even if they only send a report, it would be detrimental to our plans."

"Captain Drevok asked to see you on the bridge as soon as you are done," D'Tal said. "A force of thirteen Starfleet frigates has been detected ahead of us. We may have less time than we thought."

S'Lonn acknowledged him with a grunt, then climbed to his feet. He tossed the dirty rag back onto the deck and headed for the bridge without a backward glance.

D'Tal eyed the pile of rags and tools strewn about the deck of his engine room and moved to pick them up. Then he stopped. _Why bother?_

#####

S'Lonn entered the bridge. "How bad?" he asked.

"Bad. The convoy has turned back toward the five ships trailing us. The commander hopes to destroy them before the other thirteen frigates are in range."

"He will not," S'Lonn stated. He did not bother to read any details from the Convoy Commander's message.

Drevok's eyebrows went up. "You think our nine escorts will not defeat the five Starfleet vessels?"

"No. We will not prevail. Starfleet knows the strength of our escort, yet they still seek to engage. They are confident of victory."

Drevok found himself agreeing with his pessimistic First Mate, despite a fervent desire to believe that the convoy might escape destruction and – by extension – he would somehow be saved from having to commit treason against the Empire just to survive.

"Have you talked to Krettel?" S'Lonn asked.

"Yes. As you predicted, it did not go well." Krettel was the ship's Purser, and the only one of _Pallaix's_ six-man crew who was married.

"But he agreed to the plan?"

"Yes, reluctantly. I believe he still hopes to be reunited with his wife and children after the war is over."

"That is not possible. You know how closely the border is watched. He would be caught and our subterfuge exposed. The Tal Shiar would be set on our trails."

"Yes, I explained that to him, but it is a hard thing we ask of him. To leave his family, never to see them again. To let his family believe he is dead."

"Should I kill him?" S'Lonn asked. "It sounds as if he might do something stupid, now or in the future. Better I kill him than we take that risk."

"No! We leave together or we die together. _All_ of us. I will hear no more talk of killing anyone. That sort of self-serving pragmatism is why we left the Navy in the first place. It has no place on MY ship."

"OUR ship," S'Lonn reminded him. "And we are about to commit treason to save our lives. What is that, if not self-serving pragmatism? I do not wish to carry out this plan only to fall into the hands of the Tal Shiar later. Far better to die now."

Of course S'Lonn was right; a quick death now was infinitely preferable. Drevok knew quite well what could be expected at the hands of the Tal Shiar. "I will talk to Krettel and make certain that he understands... that he understands..." Drevok's voice trailed into silence. _Make sure he understands what?_ Drevok thought bitterly. _That he will never again embrace his T'Jann? Never again hold little Kalli in his arms? Live the rest of his life knowing where they are, yet forced to stay away? Maybe it __**would**__ be more merciful to kill him now._

"I have often envied him, S'Lonn." Drevok murmured. "Now I am glad I never took a mate."

S'Lonn grunted in agreement. "Go speak with him," he said. "We don't have much time. I will watch the bridge."

Drevok's eyes cast about, as if seeking an excuse to put off his unpleasant task. "Call me at once if anything happens," he said, then turned to leave.

#####

**Romulan Fast Transport **_**Veka'an**__**, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

Prime Consul Galtan resisted the urge to get up and pace about the bridge. As a senior member of the Romulan Star Empire's governing council, she needed to set an example of calm detachment for her inferiors. They were clearly distraught; it was up to her to show them of what stern stuff the Romulan ruling class was made.

She gave a start when the tense silence on the bridge was broken by the urgent voice of the sensor operator. "Captain, one of the thirteen Starfleet frigates has broken formation, and is closing at warp 6.6."

Captain Dhiel frowned. "Are you certain? Starfleet frigates are not that fast. Perhaps it is one of their decoy drones?"

The operator turned back to the console, manipulating his data display with deft movements of his hands. "No, Captain. It is a frigate."

Dhiel's frown deepened. Something was wrong, he just wasn't sure what. "What of the other twelve frigates?"

The sensor operator had his head down, sorting through data, and didn't respond right away. Captain Dhiel was about to prompt him again when he spoke, "They are not frigates, Captain. All twelve are decoys."

Galtan followed the exchange, trying to understand. "We are running from _one_ frigate?" she asked.

"Apparently so," was Dhiel's curt response.

The sensor operator looked up from his console, a look of fear in his eyes that had been absent just moments before, and Galtan's heart began to race. "Captain, the frigate... it is _Chosin_!"

A shocked silence fell over the bridge, and Galtan looked around in confusion. "Captain? What is Chosin?"

"_Chosin_. A Starfleet frigate commanded by a Vulcan. _Chosin_ has engaged our forces numerous times and has never been defeated, even when heavily outnumbered." Dhiel stared absently at the view screen while he spoke, as if distracted or deep in thought. "This is not good," he concluded.

Galtan look bewildered. "What we thought were thirteen frigates behind us is actually only one. How is that _not_ good?"

Dhiel threw her an exasperated 'I-don't-have-time-for-this' look, but had the very good sense not to voice it. "Their current speed of warp 6.6 will put them in weapons range simultaneously with the other Starfleet vessels. We will be bracketed by fire from two directions. It is a common Coalition tactic." _And a very effective one_, he added to himself.

"But only from six ships, which is just one more than we were originally planning to face. What am I missing?"

"If all six enemy ships were together, their torpedoes would come at us from one direction. Our defensive fire would be more effective. One of our torpedoes could destroy several of theirs. Our disruptors could move from target to target quickly." Dhiel demonstrated this by picking-off imaginary torpedoes in the air with quick thrusts of his index finger.

"If the same number of ships come from opposite directions, our disruptor turrets must slew farther to acquire new targets – up to one-hundred-eighty degrees. That can take several seconds, a considerable amount of time when enemy torpedoes are inbound." He demonstrated with his fingers again, stabbing at the air, then turning to stab behind him. "You see?"

Consul Galtan did see, and her face turned pale as she suddenly comprehended their danger.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

Trip watched with satisfaction as the tactical situation unfolded on the main view screen. In a matter of minutes, all the ships of Task Force 2.1 would be in range and he would give the order to unleash a devastating swarm of mark two torpedoes at the Romulan convoy's military escort.

He opened a channel to the launch bay. 'Bridge, launch bay."

"Launch bay, aye."

"That you, Hodges?"

There was a brief silence, then, "Yes sir, Hodges here."

Trip couldn't help but smile at Hodge's momentary disorientation. _I'll bet T'Pol __**never**__ broke comm protocol like that_, he thought. "Are the six-packs ready to go?"

"Yes sir. The first four are staged and ready."

"Good. When I give the word, we'll be launching a total of eight six-packs. I want them deployed as fast as possible. After the first four are gone, I want to set a new record for staging and launching the next four."

"Yes sir. I think we can get all eight out in thirty or forty seconds."

"Make it thirty."

"Aye, Captain."

Trip closed the channel to the launch bay and addressed Graham at the weapons console. "While they're pushing those six-packs out, you'll be firing all tubes as fast as the autoloaders will let you."

"Aye, Captain," Graham acknowledged.

As the ship's First Officer, it was unusual for Graham to be manning the primary weapons console, but he was extremely good at it. Trip was understandably reluctant to make any changes to the finely-honed bridge team that T'Pol had built. _If it ain't broke, don't fix it_.

Trip's eyes swung back to the tactical display. Another couple of minutes until show time. Then, in the span of thirty-six seconds, _Chosin_ would unleash sixty-six torpedoes. Sixty-six! That was twice the entire inventory of torpedoes carried by the pre-war _Enterprise_, and it would have taken _Enterprise_ over two minutes to fire them all. Add another three-hundred torpedoes from the rest of his Task Force, and the rommies were in for a VERY rough time.

#####

**Romulan Fast Transport **_**Veka'an**__**, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

"Captain Dhiel, Coalition vessels are launching torpedoes!" Centurion Rh'Haal said, seated at the sensor console.

Prime Consul Galtan gave a gasp of alarm at the word 'torpedoes', despite having been warned by Captain Dhiel to expect as much.

"How many?" Dhiel asked.

"Thirty, and they are still launching."

"Time to intercept?"

"Two minutes."

Two minutes? _Two minutes?_ Could that be all the life she had left? No. Unthinkable. "Captain, what is being done to ensure my safety?" Galtan asked, heedless of the panic that colored her voice.

Dhiel ignored her question and addressed his sensor operator. "Are they targeting _Veka'an_?"

"It is too soon to tell," Rh'Haal replied.

"Captain!" Galtan said. She would not be ignored.

"Not now, Prime Consul. Rh'Haal?"

"They have ceased firing Captain. Three hundred eighty-four torpedoes are inbound. Intercept in one-hundred seconds."

Six ships had just salvoed three hundred eighty-four torpedoes in half a minute, leaving Dhiel completely stunned. And Galtan completely panicked.

"You must do something," she shrilled. "If anything happens to me, you will all pay! Your families will pay! Your mates will be tortured, your children killed, the Praetor will personally –"

"Silence!" Dhiel snarled. "It is out of my hands. I do not command this convoy." Nor could he dispute her description of the fate that awaited them if they failed to bring her safely home – their orders left no doubt of that. In the event of failure, _somebody_ would pay a price, and if the dead could not be punished, then their families would be. It was the Romulan way.

"I demand to speak with the Convoy Commander," Galtan said. She was almost yelling, so great was her fear. Even Dhiel's disrespect had gone unnoticed.

He was about to oblige her, but the Comms Officer spoke first, "New convoy orders, Captain."

Dhiel read the new orders, blinked, and read them again. _Veka'an_ and the nine escorting warships were to immediately reduce speed and fall in _behind_ the noncombatant vessels.

Behind? It made no sense, but he gave the necessary orders.

#####

**Romulan cargo ship **_**Pallaix, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

"What are they doing?" Drevok muttered, staring at the sensor display. Old _Pallaix's_ eyes may not have been particularly sharp, but they were good enough to see the military escort slowing and falling in behind the civilian vessels. "What are they doing?" he repeated.

S'Lonn emitted one of his trademark grunts, which Drevok interpreted to mean he would not be hazarding a guess. That the Navy's escorts were reacting to _something_ was clear. Equally clear was the fact that the Navy had decided against informing the rest of the convoy what it was. This bothered Drevok. He hated being kept in the dark; hated the helpless feeling that accompanied it.

Then he saw the first wave of inbound torpedoes crawling onto the sensor display, and decided that being in the dark hadn't been so bad, after all.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

"What are they doing?" Trip muttered to himself.

The Romulan convoy continued on its course toward Task Force 2.1, but the convoy's escorts had slowed and taken up positions behind the main body. All nine of the Romulan escorts had opened fire, targeting the sixty-six torpedoes from _Chosin_ with disruptors and torpedoes. But inexplicably, they completely ignored the greater threat posed by the more than three hundred torpedoes coming from the opposite direction.

The combined fire of nine warbirds was more than enough to take out the torpedoes _Chosin_ had launched, but Trip couldn't see the point. There was nothing between the escorts and the OTHER three-hundred torpedoes but twenty noncombatants. Do the rommies think we targeted the unarmed civilian ships? _They HAVE to know we wouldn't do that_, Trip thought. _Our torpedoes will go right past the noncombatants on their way to their targets..._

And then he knew. _Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit!_

"Bridge, engine room. I want maximum warp now; everything you've got. 6.8 or better."

"Engine room, aye." Saracco's tone was calm and confident, and Trip was certain he would get more speed than he'd requested.

"Walder, new orders for the Task Force. They are to reverse course immediately and proceed away from the convoy at maximum warp. Trinh, maintain our current heading."

"Aye, sir."

"Captain?" The question came from Commander Graham at the weapons console, but Trip knew he was speaking in his capacity as First Officer. Trip had just drastically changed the plan, and Graham wanted to know why.

"The rommies are going to interdict the torpedoes from the Task Force with their noncombatants." Trip explained.

"With civilian ships? They can't. They carry no weapons."

"Not with weapons," Trip stated, his face a grim mask, "but with the ships themselves. They're going to blow the warp cores to take out our torpedoes."

Graham was shocked speechless by the brutality of the Romulan plan.

"Get ready for a brawl, people," Trip announced to the bridge crew. "When the dust clears, our main body is going to have nine rommie escorts all over them. They'll need our help." Left unsaid was the fact that it would be six ships in a melee against nine, and the nine were armed with batteries of powerful Romulan disruptors. In the kind of close-in fight that was coming, all the advantages belonged to the rommies.

The vibrations of the deck plates changed pitch and intensity as _Chosin_ surged to warp 6.8. Then to 6.9. Saracco had come through, Trip noted briefly, before turning his full attention back to the tactical problem.

He racked his brain, considering and discarding options at lightning speed, but there was no way around it. They could not win this fight. Task Force 2.1 was lost.

The only question that remained was how many rommies they would take down with them.

_Is this it, then? Is this the end of the line?_ He ruthlessly pushed the thought aside. He would be the calm and competent Captain until the final disruptor strike finished them. His crew deserved no less.

_Maybe I'm wrong_, Trip thought. _Maybe the rommies have done this because they believe we're targeting their civilian ships_...

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when the main view screen flashed white, and the ship's optical sensors shut down to protect themselves from a furious storm of photonic energy. The warp cores of every noncombatant vessel in the Romulan convoy had been simultaneously breached, destroying all within that region of space, including Trip's last, thin shred of hope.

#####

**Romulan cargo ship **_**Pallaix, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

Drevok could not tear his eyes from the view screen, spell-bound by the sight of hundreds – _hundreds!_ – of Coalition torpedoes hurtling toward them. Of all the Coalition's weapons, these – the so-called 'mark 2 torpedoes' – were the most hated and feared.

He had to admit it was a terrifying sight, all the more so because _Pallaix's_ primitive sensors had been unable to determine whether _Pallaix_ was a target until just moments ago. His knees had nearly buckled with relief when he finally realized the torpedoes would pass them by on their way to the escorts.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" he asked S'Lonn, who stood at his side, equally engrossed in the events unfolding on the screen.

"No, never. How could just five ships unleash all THAT?"

Drevok chuckled. "I don't know. I'm just glad they didn't include _our_ ship in their target lists."

The wave of torpedoes reached the non-combatants, on their way to the Navy escorts that were their true targets. At that same instant, the self-destruct alarm began its strident warble.

It was the alarm that S'Lonn had wired into the self-destruct mechanism. The alarm that warned them the coded destruct sequence had been received, and that they had ninety seconds to get to the escape pod.

Drevok and S'Lonn exchanged startled glances. _It's too early_, Drevok thought.

It was to be his last thought.

Coded sequences had also been sent to the nineteen other civilian ships, and they detonated immediately. An entire region of space was engulfed in a blaze of nuclear fury, fueled by the inconceivable energy of nineteen warp cores exploding together, releasing the raw destructive force of thousands of torpedoes. Every one of the inbound Coalition torpedoes was annihilated in the conflagration, contributing its own destructive force to the storm.

Also annihilated, utterly and completely, was the cargo ship _Pallaix_.

#####

**Romulan Fast Transport **_**Veka'an**__**, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

It had to be what flying into the photosphere of a sun was like. Torrents of radiant energy and floods of charged particles tore at _Veka'an's_ shields, pushing them to the very edge of their design limits. Power converters howled in protest as over-stressed shields sucked in every available erg of energy. Protective breakers tripped throughout the ship, and the decks seemed to lurch as the inertial dampers went off-line, then came back on moments later.

The storm passed as quickly as it came, but the shields held.

Barely.

Captain Dhiel realized he had a death-grip on the arms of his command chair, and forced his hands to relax. "What in Asharel's name was _that_?" he demanded of his stunned bridge crew. There was no answer. Low, whimpering sounds came from one side of the bridge as Prime Consul Galtan cowered in her chair. Dhiel ignored her.

"Centurion Rh'Haal! Report."

The sensor operator stared furiously at his board, waiting for the readings to stabilize after the... the _whatever_ that enormous surge of energy had been. "Captain... I'm reading no inbound torpedoes. They appear to have all been destroyed." Rh'Haal looked up, eyes wide with astonishment. "All twenty civilian ships are also gone. Destroyed!"

Dhiel moved to the sensor station, shouldering Rh'Haal aside to work the controls for himself. _Could it be?_ he wondered. _Would the Coalition target our noncombatants and ignore the escorts? It makes no sense._ It only took him seconds to learn the truth; that the noncombatants had been deliberately sacrificed to eliminate the Coalition's torpedoes.

He should have been appalled by such an act, except he was too relieved at finding himself alive when death had seemed so certain. _Veka'an_ was small and lightly armed, but she was still a commissioned vessel of the Romulan Star Navy, and he had no doubt that dozens of those mark 2 torpedoes had been targeting his ship.

If the civilian ships had not been destroyed, the entire convoy would have been lost. It had been their only recourse.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

"Captain, all nine rommie escorts have opened fire on the Task Force. They're returning fire. _Yorktown_ and _Armstrong_ have taken hits, but report no damage."

"Any inbound torpedoes?"

"No sir. I think the rommies exhausted their magazines targeting our torpedoes."

That was extremely good news, and another spark of hope was kindled in Trip's mind. If the rommies were actually out of torpedoes, the coming battle would not be so one-sided in the rommies favor.

_If_ it was true. _I'd have held some torpedoes in reserve if I were the rommie Commander_, Trip mused.

There was only one way to find out. "Graham, Prepare another salvo of torpedoes, six targeting romeo –"

He was interrupted by Lieutenant Koussa at the sensor station, "Captain, I'm detecting multiple torpedo detonations! Romeo three is destroyed! Indications of damage to romeo two and uh, seven... romeo six... destroyed! Light damage to romeo one... damage to romeo five... No, romeo five is destroyed!"

_What the hell?_ "Whose torpedoes are those?" Trip asked.

"Ours!" Koussa said. He sounded as perplexed as Trip felt.

"You reported them destroyed," Trip said, and immediately regretted the accusatory tone of his voice.

"They _were_," Koussa insisted. "All sixty-six of them were taken out by disruptor hits or torpedo blasts. Somehow thirty-nine of them survived and detonated. Don't ask me how!"

Trip shelved the mystery for later. He still had a sizable force of Romulan warships to deal with. "Status of the rommie convoy?"

"Civilian ships all self-destructed, and destroyed the torpedoes from the Task Force. Three alpha-class escorts destroyed; severe damage to one foxtrot – she's dead in space. Light damage to one delta and one alpha-class. Remaining escorts are maintaining course and speed for the Task Force, but one small vessel – looks like she might be a scout ship – is heading 327 by 32 at warp 6.8."

Trip briefly considered the situation, which had changed dramatically in the span of thirty seconds. Four of the nine escorts were destroyed or disabled, but the remaining five were still closing on the five ships of the Task Force main body. They may or may not have had any torpedoes left, and they appeared to be attempting to cover the escape of a single, small scout ship.

_Must be someone important in that scout_, Trip concluded. _If the rommies were willing to sacrifice twenty non-combatants to protect it, they might do the same with their remaining escorts. Need to make sure they don't get too close_. "Walder, new orders for the convoy. Have them maintain a minimum distance of twenty light-seconds from any rommie vessel. Don't let them come any closer than that. Engage immediately with torpedoes, twenty per escort. Graham, salvo thirty-six torpedoes, six per escort. Time them to arrive with the Task Force torpedoes. If the rommies have really fired all their torpedoes, this should finish them."

"Aye, Captain."

#####

**Romulan Fast Transport **_**Veka'an**__**, **_**Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

Captain Dhiel stared at the report for several long moments. Every one of the remaining warbirds in the convoy's escort had just been destroyed, overwhelmed by unbelievable numbers of Coalition torpedoes. Of the convoy's original thirty ships, they were the only survivors.

They had a ten minute head start on the Starfleet vessels, and could maintain their current speed of warp 6.8 for several hours. It _should_ be enough.

"How fast are we going?"

Dhiel winced at Consul Galtan's loud, shrill voice. At least she was moderately calmer now. At one point, just before the first wave of torpedoes was destroyed, she'd been completely hysterical. Itwas an ugly scene, one he did not care to see repeated. _If it happens again_, he told himself, _I will have her physically removed from the bridge. If I must answer to the Praetor himself, then so be it_.

"We are still proceeding at warp 6.8," he answered. As part of the convoy, they could travel no faster than the slowest ship. Now that they were alone, he was under no such constraints. _Veka'an_ was fast – as fast as any ship in the Romulan Navy – and he was pushing her engines as hard as he dared. Only the Vulcans had ships fast enough to overtake him.

"Can we go no faster?"

"No, Consul. To go any faster would endanger the engines. Perhaps you should retire to your quarters and rest..?"

"No. No! I will remain here until... until we are safe."

He managed not to sigh. "I believe we are safe now, Consul. No Starfleet vessel could sustain this speed for very long."

"I will remain here," she repeated, but seemed a little more composed by his reassurance.

He settled into his chair, slowly unwinding as the realization that they had actually survived a seemingly impossible situation sank into his consciousness.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Rho Virginis sector, 20 Mar 2159**

"We can't catch her," Trip said, "Not with the head start she has." He scowled at the tactical display, watching with frustration as the small Romulan scout sped away. He was convinced that someone very important was aboard that vessel. Someone the rommies had been willing to sacrifice twenty-nine other vessels to save.

He _could_ have had her. He could have sent _Chosin_ after the scout while the main body of the Task Force took care of the surviving warbirds, but he didn't. The risk had been too great.

"Does Fleet Group One have any ships in range to intercept?" Graham asked.

Trip zoomed the display out to show the locations of all Coalition forces that were converging on Rho Virginis, and the answer to Graham's question was immediately obvious. "No."

"Damn," Graham muttered. "I can't believe the bastard's going to get away."

Trip was about to remind Graham that one ship may have escaped but there were twenty-nine others that hadn't, which was a pretty good day's work by anyone's standards, when Chief Verley and PO3 Hodges entered the bridge. Hodges was the senior torpedo tech on board, and the person best-suited to explain how thirty-nine torpedoes could be destroyed by Romulan fire, yet somehow still find their targets.

"I believe we have an answer for you, Captain," Verley said. They both seemed rather pleased with themselves.

At a nod from Verley, Hodges began his explanation. "When I reviewed the sensor logs, the first thing I noticed was that ALL the torpedoes in question had atomic fission warheads. None of the antimatter warheads made it through the rommie's defensive barrage. That gave me a starting point to work from."

"Go on," Trip said, intrigued.

"Every torpedo has a guidance system which is... well, it's very complex, and like any complex system, it has multiple points of failure that can, uh... fail." Hodges winced as he realized how ridiculous he sounded.

Trip grinned. "S'okay, you can skip the tutorial and go straight to the meat."

Hodges nodded and blushed as he realized he'd just been trying to dumb down his explanation to one of the premier engineers in Starfleet. "Sorry sir. Long story short, the guidance system constantly updates a failsafe timer in the warhead with the latest prediction of the intercept time. As long as the guidance system is active, the failsafe timer does nothing. But if the guidance system fails, the timer starts counting down from the last update it received. When the timer hits zero, BAM! The warhead detonates."

"I get that. But how did these torpedoes get through the rommie's defensive fire?"

"They didn't," Hodges said, and now he was grinning. "The rommies hit every one of them. Totally destroyed their drives, power systems, sensors, countermeasures, guidance systems... Nothing left but junk. End of the line for all the antimatter warheads – the containment fields shut down and the antimatter was released. BAM!"

Hodges' grin widened, and Trip could tell he was getting to what he considered the 'good part.' "It's a different story for the fission warheads. They're completely surrounded by heavy shielding. So heavy that a rommie disruptor, or even a torpedo blast, if it's far enough away, might not penetrate the shield. The warhead would continue along its ballistic trajectory while the failsafe timer counted down from the last computed intercept time. Then, BAM! Nasty surprise for the rommies."

Trip nodded thoughtfully. The explanation made sense. In fact, it was obvious, in hindsight. He clapped Hodges on the shoulder. "Good job. I want a write-up of your findings that I can send up to Second Fleet. They'll be pleased to hear about this, uh, this _unexpected_ new feature."

"Aye, sir."

PO3 Hodges left, intent on his mission. At a glance from Trip, Chief Verley stood fast.

"Sir?" he asked.

Trip motioned with his head, and the two men left the bridge for the privacy of the CO's office. Trip followed Verley in, closing the door behind him.

"Is this how it's going to be for the rest of the war, Chief?" he asked, after the two were seated.

"I'm not following you, Captain."

"The rommies just destroyed twenty of their own merchant ships, twenty _noncombatants_, to save nine warbirds and a scout. Is this what we can expect as we push farther into Romulan space? As the rommies grow more desperate? Will they send waves of merchant ships on suicide missions? Will I be forced to fire on civilians? Are we going to have to kill every living Romulan before we can end this war? Because I don't have the stomach for that."

Verley sighed. "I don't know, sir, I just don't know. We'll do what we have to do to keep Earth safe."

Trip nodded, but his eyes were full of bitterness. "Yeah, God help us, we'll do what we have to do. But if the rommies force us to kill civilians... I don't think I could ever forgive them for that. Ever."

Verley clenched his teeth, trying to contain the anger that burned inside him. He had already reached that point. He would never forgive the Romulans for what they had done to his two Captains – first T'Pol, and now Tucker. It was one thing to kill or cripple someone's body. But to damage their soul, the very essence of who they were? _That_ was unforgivable.

He'd seen it first in Khart-lan's eyes. The awful decisions of who would live and who would die. The pain of loss, made worse because the losses happened under _her_ command. Trying to put herself into the minds of her Romulan adversaries so she could anticipate their next move, minds that were capable of incomprehensible savagery.

The pain wore at her, grinding her down, but she ignored it. As Verley worked alongside her, he began to see behind her Vulcan mask, began to see what drove her forward.

It was love.

Though she would never admit as much, it was obvious to Verley. She was motivated by love. Love for her husband, for her crew, and for her people – Vulcan _and_ Human.

It was a humbling moment – a breath-taking moment – when Verley first realized this. He knew his own motives for fighting the Romulans were much less pure, and his already-great respect for her grew by an order of magnitude.

Now he was seeing that same soul-crippling pain in the eyes of his new Captain, and he was sickened by it. Sickened by the knowledge that there was not a damn thing he could do to stop it.

No. He could never forgive the Romulans for _that_.

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SIX


	6. Chapter 6

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol is tried in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**SIX**

**Note 1:** Most depictions of space mines in movies or on TV show them drifting in space, waiting for a ship to come along and run into them (similar to the floating contact mines of WWI and WWII). Of course, this is highly unrealistic. Not only would the vastness of space require ridiculous quantities of mines to create an effective obstacle, but the mines would be easily detected long before they became a threat. A more realistic (and effective) minefield would consist of devices like homing torpedoes with passive sensors that could target ships at long range and fire automatically. The minefields referenced in this chapter are all of that second, more effective variety. When you read the word 'minefield', think 'torpedoes floating in space.'

**Note 2:** While I am in note-writing mood, I want to mention that my Romulans look like the Romulans in TOS (Trek Original Series), which is to say they look EXACTLY like Vulcans. After all, they are descended from Vulcans, having left Vulcan at the time of Surak. I have never understood why The Powers That Be decided Romulans needed those ridiculous brow-ridges. _Especially_ on a series where a completely alien race can be denoted by trivial cosmetic differences, such as a couple of spots on the forehead or small bumps on the chin. It is completely nonsensical, and I am having none of it.

**Standing Watch  
**  
Dissolved in a blink of atomic fury,  
The dust of their destruction mixing with the dust of creation.  
Incorporeal. Insubstantial. Invisible.  
They stand watch still.

Our squadrons cross the interstellar night,  
Engines howling a dirge for the lost and soon to be lost,  
Racing to the next engagement. The next Marathon. The next Armageddon.  
They stand watch still.

In the quiet before the storm their ghostly breath chills your neck.  
Over your shoulder, another set of eyes seek out the foe,  
Another set of arms strain alongside yours.  
They stand watch still.

So far from home, perhaps they have lost their way?  
But no! Like you, duty holds them in its iron grip,  
Across the boundaries of death itself.  
They stand watch still.

from _"The Siege of Beta Hydri and other poems"  
_by PO2 William McLain  
KIA February 1, 2159 at the second battle of Zeta Trianguli

#####

_**Enterprise**_**, Rho Virginis sector, ****21 Mar 2159 (Operation Drumhead, H minus 10 hours)**

"Attention on deck!"

"As you were." Admiral Chu entered the flag bridge and made his way to the large tactical display in room's center, where his Chief of Staff stood waiting.

"Any change, Harold?" Chu asked as he walked up beside him.

"No sir," Captain Walker replied. He gestured at the portion of the display showing the space around Rho Virginis. "Pathfinder groups are in position and waiting your order to go."

Chu gazed at the display with unseeing eyes, but he already knew what it showed. Forty-five two-ship groups were staged around Rho Virginis. Pathfinder groups, they were being called.

The lead ship of each group was a corvette stripped of all offensive weaponry, its phase cannon mounts replaced by sensor arrays, its torpedoes replaced by sensor drones. Its job was simple: pass through the Rho Virg system in advance of the attacking fleets, and pinpoint rommie defenses with its remote drones and enhanced sensors.

The trail ship was a conventionally-armed warship, and its job was also simple: get both ships in and back out in one piece.

That would be easier said than done. Chu's staff had estimated attrition rates for the pathfinder groups would approach fifty percent. It was an appallingly high level of casualties, but there was no way around it; committing his fleets blind would be an act of supreme folly. He had to have _some_ idea of the disposition of rommie forces.

Walker noticed his hesitation. "Admiral?"

"Send the order."

"Aye, sir," Walker strode to the comm station and talked quietly to the operator. While the order went out, Chu's eyes remained fixed on the display.

"And so it begins," he murmured to himself.

#####

**The Callium, Romulus, 21 Mar 2159 (H minus 9 hours)**

Vokalus was flanked by two soldiers of the Palace Guard as he entered the Praetor's small conference room. They were most definitely _not_ an honor guard, as indicated by the brusque way they halted him just inside the door. His eyes darted around the room before focusing on the Praetor, who stood by the briefing table with Chief Minister Pyral. _I certainly never expected to see __**this**__ room again_, Vokalus reflected. _In truth, I never expected I would survive my conviction for treason_.

He wore the dull grey jumpsuit that marked him as a convict, but at least it was clean. And they had removed his shackles. _It is a small thing, but still something to be grateful for_. He stood between his escorts and patiently awaited the Praetor's pleasure. Patience was something he'd had ample opportunity to practice in the small cell that had been his home for the last five weeks.

His Magnificence Karrivus III, Praetor of the Romulan Star Empire, glanced briefly at him while speaking quietly to Pyral but did not otherwise acknowledge his presence. Moments later, the Chief Minister hurried from the room, dismissed by a casual wave of the Praetor's hand. Only then did the Praetor turn his full attention on Vokalus. "Bring him here," he said, addressing the guards. They walked Vokalus to the briefing table, never leaving their positions on his flanks.

The Praetor regarded him dispassionately. "Were you provided an opportunity to familiarize yourself with the current state of the war?"

"Yes, Magnificence."

"And what is your opinion of the situation?"

"Do you wish to hear it _now_?" Vokalus asked, glancing significantly at the guards on either side of him.

"Leave us," the Praetor commanded, and the guards strode from the room.

Vokalus waited until the door had closed behind them before speaking. "The Coalition will suffer ignominious defeat, Magnificence. Our valiant forces will crush them, utterly and completely. Glorious victory will soon be ours."

The Praetor's eyes went cold. "You dare to mock me?"

"Perhaps it has slipped your mind, Magnificence, but the last time I told the truth in this room it did not go well for me," Vokalus said, wearing an expression of bland indifference.

"And it will go even worse if you defy me," the Praetor snarled.

"Worse? How, exactly?" Vokalus asked. "My life's work was taken from me. Everything I care for is gone: my rank, my position, my career. My remaining days will be spent in a tiny cell, reviled as a traitor and despised by everyone I know. Save your threats, Magnificence. Killing me would be a kindness."

The Praetor turned a dangerous shade of green. "Answer my question!" he hissed.

Vokalus had never seen him quite so angry, yet could not bring himself to care. "Very well, Your Magnificence. I will speak the truth. Prepare yourself, for you will not like what you are about to hear."

Inexplicably, the Praetor's anger faded, replaced by a grim smile. "I am no fool, Vokalus. I know something is amiss. Speak your truth."

Vokalus picked up a pointer and took his customary place at the briefing table. "We are about to lose Rho Virginis," he began. "The Coalition fleets are in place here... and here. In a matter of hours, they will begin their assault. By this time tomorrow, they will hold the entire system."

"Krotash claims their attack will fail. They have no more ships than we have, and in battles such as this the defender holds all the advantages. We are in a well-prepared defensive position. For the Coalition to launch an attack against a force of equal size can only be an act of pure desperation. That is an immutable principle of military science."

"That may be true in general," Vokalus replied, "but in this particular case our forces, while equally sized, are _not_ equally matched."

"The intelligence summaries say otherwise, Vokalus. If anything, we have a slight advantage in numbers."

Rather than reply, Vokalus expanded the display until individual ships could be resolved. He selected a _Devoras_-class escort and called up her status information in a separate window to the side. "This is _D'Shavan_, one of our newest fleet escorts. Look at her capabilities: eight heavy disruptors; four torpedo launchers each capable of firing four times per minute; forward shield projectors; and a warp core capable of sustained cruising at warp six with bursts up to warp 6.4."

"I am familiar with that class vessel. What is your point?"

Vokalus called up the specs of another ship. "This is the Starfleet vessel _Marathon_, a _Dieppe_-class frigate. She was destroyed at Lalande III early in the war. Her armaments consisted of six phase-cannon and four torpedo launchers. She had polarized hull-plating instead of shields, and her engines were capable of warp 5.6."

"I am still missing your point." The Praetor made no attempt to conceal his impatience.

"I am coming to that, Magnificence," Vokalus said, calling up another set of specs. "This is _Normandy_, another _Dieppe_-class frigate commissioned the same month as _Marathon_. She carries seven phase cannon, six torpedo launchers, forward AND rear shield projectors, twelve decoy drones, two multi-barreled point-defense rail guns, and engines that can take her to warp 6.6. You see the difference? You see the improvements?"

"Yes. I am not blind."

"At the start of the war, a single _Devoras_-class escort could easily defeat two _Dieppe_-class frigates. Today that ratio is reversed. The Coalition continually upgrade their ships and weapons. Even now, our intelligence tells us they have installed something called 'six-packs' onto many of their ships. We have no details, but they appear to be a way of greatly increasing their torpedo launchers' rate of fire."

"Then why are we not doing the same?" the Praetor demanded. "Why is _D'Shavan_ not similarly improved?"

"At the war's beginning, there was no need to improve. Our ships were the best in the quadrant. True, the Vulcans had faster engines, the Andorians stronger shields, and the Tellarites more powerful disruptors, but nobody could match the Imperial Star Navy ship for ship. Nor could they match us in numbers. We became complacent."

"Under _your_ command," the Praetor pointed out in an ominous tone.

"Yes, Magnificence. I shoulder a great deal of the blame. I recognized the need for similar improvements to our own ships, but could not make it happen. I initiated dozens of projects within the Imperial Design Agency. Projects to enhance shields and engines. Improve weapons and sensors. I even asked them to develop a decoy drone comparable to what the Coalition has. Only two of those projects have yielded results. The rest appear to be mired in endless loops of design reviews and specification updates."

"And you found that to be satisfactory? What did you do to get these projects moving forward?" The Praetor scowled, frustrated by the lost opportunities Vokalus had presided over.

"I removed the Agency Director and replaced him with a deputy who seemed to better understand the urgency of my projects."

"And he did not?"

"I never had a chance to find out, Magnificence. The Director I replaced was immediately reinstated by your Minister of Research, and I was informed – most emphatically – that I had overstepped the bounds of my authority."

"Why was I not informed of this?"

"The Minister of Research assured me you were aware of the issue and that you fully supported his actions But it does not matter. Regardless of who is in charge, we can never keep pace with the Coalition."

The Praetor's scowl deepened. "Are you saying their scientists and engineers are that much better than ours?"

"No, Magnificence. In fact, they fail constantly. Time and again. Over and over. And that is why we cannot match them."

"Vokalus, you speak nonsense. Every Coalition failure is a victory for us."

Vokalus gazed at the Praetor's scowling features with a passive expression. He almost let the Praetor's statement go unchallenged... almost. _No, I will not remain silent. He asked me for the truth and the __truth is what he will hear._

"In the short term you are correct," Vokalus said. "Every Coalition failure means their engineers must try a different approach, delaying the operational date of whatever improvement they seek. But that is the difference, you see. Coalition engineers are permitted to fail while ours are not. Our researchers are punished for failure – the more spectacular the failure, the more drastic the punishment. They are not fools. They have learned it is better to slow the pace of development to a crawl. To test and retest. To constantly review and revise. To insure that there is unanimous agreement between all involved parties so that no single person can be held responsible. They have learned that the surest way to avoid failure is through delay. Our people are paralyzed by their fear!" Vokalus steeled himself for the anger and denials his blunt assessment was sure to trigger, only to be surprised once again when the Praetor's scowl faded, replaced by a benevolent smile.

"Ah, Vokalus. You have spent so much time trying to understand our enemies that you have forgotten the nature of your own people." He laid a fatherly hand on Vokalus' shoulder, while Vokalus blinked in astonishment. "Romulans cannot be governed in the same manner as Vulcans. We are fundamentally different. After the Great Exodus, our Vulcan cousins took a different path. They learned to ruthlessly suppress their emotions and control their impulses. It is a meager existence they live, never feeling the full range of joy and sorrow that is their birthright. Yet because they exercise such rigid self-control, their government can be less restrictive. It is not so with Romulans. We have access to _all_ of our emotions, to the full range of our passions and pride. We are not so easily controlled as Vulcans. Without a strong hand preserving order – My hand! – Romulan society would quickly splinter into conflicting factions. Order would turn to chaos. No, Vokalus, some things cannot be changed."

It was a side of the Praetor that Vokalus had never witnessed before. A more thoughtful, less imperious side. _He is... almost likeable._ Vokalus pushed the thought aside. _Despite everything, he is still my Praetor. I must not lose sight of that._ "As you say, Magnificence."

"Precisely. As _I_ say. Tell me, Vokalus, what would you do if I reinstated you as Grand Marshal of my forces?

"I would not accept the position, Magnificence."

"You would defy my orders?" Strangely, there was no hidden menace in the Praetor's question. He seemed genuinely curious.

"Coalition forces are mere hours away from launching their assault," Vokalus explained. "Our forces are poised to execute Krotash's plan, a plan prepared by _his_ staff to be implemented by commanders _he_ hand-picked. No good could come from replacing Krotash now. I would be forced to execute his plan because there is simply no time to change it. If his plan fails, as I believe it will, Krotash and his loyalists will claim I did not understand it, or that I failed to execute it correctly. And if it succeeds, Krotash will rightly claim that the resulting victory belongs to him. No, Magnificence; you must allow Krotash to see his plan through."

"Very well, Krotash will have his chance. But if he fails and Rho Virginis falls? Will you then accept reinstatement as Grand Marshal?"

Vokalus could only marvel at what he was hearing. Karrivus III, Praetor of the Romulan Star Empire, was asking him if he would do something. _Asking_. It was unprecedented. "Yes, Magnificence."

"Then we are done here."

Vokalus turned to leave, then paused. "Magnificence, am I to return to my cell..?"

"Of course. And if Krotash is successful, that is where you will remain." The Praetor still smiled, but any benevolence that might have been there moments before was gone, replaced by something colder and more familiar.

"Yes, Magnificence." Vokalus rejoined his two guards, waiting just outside the briefing room.

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Rho Virginis sector, 21 Mar 2159 (H minus 8 hours)**

"You're not saying much," Trip observed. T'Pol was nestled in his arms, her head pressed against his chest while the featureless white fog of her meditation space surrounded them.

"That is the norm for my kind," she replied, not bothering to lift her head. "It may have escaped your notice, but I _am_ Vulcan."

Trip smiled. "Indeed you are," he agreed, and pulled her in closer.

T'Pol had been in Trip's mind throughout the battle with the Romulan convoy, and while she'd taken great care not to distract him, she had still been there, ready to provide any assistance or support he might have required. Which meant she was _there_, during that tense, frightening moment when it appeared the Romulan escorts would survive the initial barrage of torpedoes; that moment when they both _knew_ Trip would die.

She had been completely helpless, unable to come to his aide, unable to do anything other than cling to his mind with a fierce intensity, as if she could save him from death through the sheer force of her will. If they were now holding each other a little tighter than normal... well, wasn't that to be expected?

But there was something else bothering her, Trip realized, something more than that single terror-filled moment. He decided to attack the problem – whatever it was – head-on. "Okay, 'fess up," he said. "Something's got you bugged. You might as well come clean."

T'Pol stirred in his arms, sitting up and gazing at him with somber eyes. "It is my intent to... come clean," she replied. "I believe you will be pleased by what I have to say."

"Oh?" Trip's skepticism was obvious. He could not imagine being pleased by anything that T'Pol found troubling.

She reached out, taking both of his hands in hers, deliberately copying the mannerism he used when discussing important issues with her. Trip recognized the significance of the gesture, and waited patiently while she collected her thoughts.

"I thought I had lost you," she said at last. "It was terrible. Shocking. Devastating. I wish never to experience such feelings again. Yet... yet as bad as they were, I was not overwhelmed by them. Somehow, I knew I would be able to keep the promise I made to you. The promise to live."

Trip recalled the day she had – reluctantly – made that promise. Her exact words were that she would _attempt_ to live, should anything happen to him. He had harbored a nagging little doubt that her attempt might fail, but that doubt vanished as the full import of her words reached him: in the worst-case scenario of his own death, T'Pol would live. She had a future independent of his own, and a sense of relief washed over him at the realization.

"You're right, T'Pol. I _am_ pleased. Pleased and relieved. But I'm also confused. Why does this trouble you?"

T'Pol's eyes dropped briefly to her hands, still tightly grasping his own, then lifted again to meet his gaze. "It is not logical," she admitted, "but it is deeply ingrained in the traditions and beliefs of my people."

"I'm not following you."

"You have read the ancient legends, Trip. The stories and tales from before the awakening, before my people embraced emotional control. Some of those stories featured couples with bonds so strong that they could speak mind-to-mind across vast distances. Bonds so strong they could share each other's essence in virtual landscapes. Bonds like _ours_." She gave his hands a brief squeeze at the mention of virtual landscapes, emphasizing their current location.

"I've read them," Trip agreed.

"Until the Kir'shara was found, my people believed those stories to be myths, having no basis in reality. Of course you and I knew better."

"Of course."

"And in all those stories, did anyone with a bond like ours survive the death of their mate? Ever?"

Trip had to smile. "Not a single one."

"Not a single one," T'Pol echoed. She hesitated a moment. "It makes me think something is wrong with _me_," she blurted, "wrong with our bond. I know it's not logical, but... but how is it _I_ can live when my ancestors wouldn't? Am I somehow less Vulcan? Do I not... do I not love as intensely?"

Trip shrugged. "Beats me. All I know is I'm happy with you _exactly_ the way you are, so I don't see a problem. Besides, don't Vulcans pride themselves on their ability to suppress emotions? Now you're all stressed because your emotions aren't intense enough? Seems backwards to me."

"I am _not_ stressed," T'Pol replied. She took note of her peevish tone, and continued in a less-defensive manner, "I recognize the dichotomy of my feelings. Did I not say it was illogical?"

"You did," Trip conceded, "and for what it's worth, I don't think there's a damn thing wrong with you _or_ our bond. The problem is you modern-day Vulcans tend to romanticize your pre-awakening ancestors."

"Vulcans do not romanticize."

"Sorry," Trip chuckled, "but what else would you call it? Your view of ancient Vulcans is completely unrealistic. You depict them all as savages who spent the bulk of their days embarked on murderous rampages against their neighbors. Cruel, heartless barbarians, unable to control their lusts and passions."

"They very nearly destroyed all life on Vulcan. Is that not barbaric?"

"Sure. But they also built a warp-capable civilization, with all the scientific and social advances implied by that. My own ancestors nearly destroyed Earth, but they weren't savages. No, I think you Vulcans tend to over-emphasize the negative aspects of your ancestors, because subconsciously you realize something was lost when you embraced emotional control and you want to keep reminding yourselves why you did it. And because doing so serves to enhance the magnitude of Surak's accomplishments."

"Surak saved my people."

"I'm not taking anything away from the guy, I'm just saying your view of your ancestors might be a little skewed."

T'Pol reflected on Trip's words. Because Vulcans suppressed their emotions, they had lost much of the basis for understanding their ancestors. But _she_ had not, and it was clear – now that she took the time to consider it – that ancient Vulcans had more in common with the Human she was married to than with her own people. Because of the bond she shared with Trip, and her long exposure to unsuppressed emotions, she had a perspective that was vastly different from the bulk of her people. She no longer shared their reflexive disdain for any expression of emotion. She had come to realize that it was not the emotions that were wrong, but the loss of control they could cause. Emotions by themselves were neutral, neither good nor bad.

"Your words have merit," she admitted.

"Is that your roundabout Vulcan way of saying I'm right?"

Her eyes glittered with amusement. "Yes. And it might interest you to know that Surak also agrees with you, or so I believe. There is some controversy regarding the interpretation of his words in the Kir'shara."

"Surak agrees with _me_? Really? What did he say?"

"Kir'shara chapter nine, section four, sub-section seventeen," T'Pol quoted, "You must be the master of logic, not logic the master of you. Let logic be your guide but not your only guide. Logic can inform your mind. It cannot inform your Katra."

A slow grin spread across Trip's face. "Can't argue with that. So, what's the controversy?"

"There is debate over Surak's meaning and use of the word 'Katra.' There is also confusion over what else Vulcans should be guided by, in addition to logic."

"I could venture a few suggestions," Trip suggested smugly, before turning serious again. "Better yet, how about _you_? I'll bet your take on things would be of great value to your fellow Vulcans."

"I am considering writing a commentary on the Kir'shara," T'Pol acknowledged. "I can't say what value it might have, but I do possess a perspective most of my people lack."

"You should do it," Trip said, with such enthusiasm that T'Pol knew she no longer had a choice in the matter. She would write the commentary; Trip would see to that.

"So, what do you think Surak meant?" Trip asked. He had his own opinion, but was interested in seeing how closely it agreed with T'Pol's.

"I believe Surak uses the word _Katra_ in much the same way that Humans use the word _heart_," T'Pol replied. "I believe Surak is telling us that logic must be moderated by a spirit of kindness and compassion. That logic is a tool, and as with any tool, it can be misused. Logic is a means to an end, not the end in itself. I believe he is saying that our goal should not be a life of strict logic, but a life of balance and harmony. A life of contentment, of... of _happiness_."

"I can see how that would seem controversial to modern Vulcans," Trip said. He was silent for a long moment, then he asked, "So... are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Living a life of happiness?" Trip's tone was casual, almost nonchalant, but T'Pol could tell the question was extremely important to him.

She gave him her answer, speaking slowly and deliberately. "Before I met you, I struggled with my feelings. I feared I was not sufficiently Vulcan. Then we met, and I feared I would have to choose between my Vulcan heritage and a life with you."

She looked directly into his eyes, catching and holding his gaze. "I chose you, and I got both. You complete me and make me whole. The answer to your question is yes. Yes, I am happy."

A powerful surge of emotion shot through Trip at her words. He didn't try to speak – he _couldn't_ speak – as he gently disengaged his hands from hers and pulled her into a tight embrace. He felt his heart might burst, so great was his joy. The woman he loved more than life itself was happy. Because of _him_. It was all he had ever wanted for her, all he had ever hoped for.

_She's finally made peace with herself over what it means to be Vulcan_, Trip realized, and he basked in the glow of her contentment as he held her in his arms.

#####

**Pathfinder Group 17, Rho Virginis, ****21 Mar 2159 (H minus 4 hours)**

"Multiple contacts, bearing 346 by neg 19 relative, range four light-minutes. Possible rommie minefield."

_Another minefield_, thought Lieutenant Valerie Curtis, Captain of the Starfleet corvette _Dimitri Zierden_. _This makes the fourth one we've mapped. The rommies have certainly been busy little bees_.

"All stop," she ordered. She became aware of her fingers drumming against the arm of her command chair and she willed them to stillness. After all, this was not her first combat mission; she'd been with First Fleet since the Epsilon Virginis campaign. It _was_ her first mission where casualty rates were predicted to be as high as fifty percent, though. That little tidbit introduced a whole new dimension of stress into the mix. _Stay calm_, she cautioned herself. _Another two hours, and we should be out of the woods._

"All stop, aye," came the response from her helmsman – well, actually her First Officer, Lieutenant JG Albert Knox. Her normal helmsman was back with First Fleet. For this mission, with a planned duration of only eight hours, _Zierden_ carried a skeleton crew. Her First Officer, Ops Officer and Comms Officer manned the bridge with her, while her ChEng and three other officers manned engineering. Oh yeah, there were also four techs in the launch bay, operating the oh-so-secret sensors bolted to every unused nook and cranny of her hull, but they were total strangers and didn't really count. The remaining forty members of her crew were back with First Fleet, chewing their fingernails while they waited to see if _Zierden_ would return in one piece. She did not plan to disappoint them, fifty percent attrition rates notwithstanding.

"Contacts confirmed. Rommie minefield, approximately two-hundred mines.

_It's a big one_, Valerie noted. "Any sign we've been detected?"

"No ma'am."

"Okay, chart it and let's get the hell out of here." She had to admit – albeit grudgingly – that the new sensors installed for this mission were incredibly effective. They would _have_ to be, to detect a field of inactive mines four light-minutes distant. Their extreme sensitivity had allowed her to avoid (and map) three other minefields, five rommie battle groups, and numerous rommie patrols. She was six hours into the eight-hour mission, on their final outbound leg. Once past this minefield, it _should_ be smooth sailing the rest of the way.

Still, as sensitive as the new sensors were, their installation had been anything but pleasant. She'd watch with poorly concealed disapproval as all of _Zierden's_ offensive weaponry was removed to make room for the extra sensor arrays. Phase cannon mounts were dismantled; torpedoes unloaded; the shuttlepod taken out and the launch bay filled with classified containers manned by mysterious technicians doing incomprehensible things. Data and power cables snaked through _Zierden's_ passageways, connecting the hastily installed sensor arrays on the hull to the controllers and data analyzers in the containers.

_Now I know how a declawed cat feels_, she thought. She didn't much care for the feeling.

Ensign Mann looked up from the comm station. "Ship-to-ship from _Thrakyll_, Captain," he announced. _Thrakyll_ was an Imperial Guard Heavy Escort, and the second ship making up Pathfinder 17. She was keeping station exactly sixty klicks dead astern, mirroring _Zierden's_ every move. The sixty kilometer spacing had been specifically mandated by Joint Ops for the Pathfinder missions; it was far enough away that a single torpedo would not destroy both ships, yet close enough that _Thrakyll's_ point defenses could still protect _Zierden_.

"Jalvareth is probably wondering why we've stopped again," Valerie observed. "Put it on-screen."

The familiar blue features of _Thrakyll's_ Commanding Officer filled the forward view screen. He was smiling broadly. "_Zierden_, if you insist on stopping every thirty minutes, we will never make it back. Surely you have not forgotten the bottle of ale you agreed to share in my quarters after this mission?"

Valerie cast an appalled look around the bridge and saw knowing smirks on every face. Jalvareth's indiscreet comment had just confirmed her officers' long-standing suspicions that there was more between her and Jalvareth than strict professionalism would account for. During the year she had been fighting Romulans in the Zeta Tri salient, her relationship with _Thrakyll's_ ebullient Commander had grown from mutual respect to close friendship. _And maybe even something more_..?

Valerie pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time to be distracted by her exotic blue friend. _Time for that after we've kicked the rommies the hell out of Rho Virg. Get your mind back on the mission, girl._

"We will speak of that after our return, _Captain_ Jalvareth," Valerie said pointedly. "Right now, we're surveying another minefield. We should be on our way momentarily."

"Of course. I will be right behind you, _Captain_ Curtis. _Thrakyll_ out." His image vanished from the forward view screen, replaced by the tactical display.

Her First Officer took advantage of the ship's stationary status to push back from the helm and stretch. He swiveled in his chair until he was facing her. "Andorian ale, huh? Must be nice..."

"For crying out loud, Al," Valerie groaned, "enough with the puppy-dog eyes. I'll see if I can get an extra bottle or two."

"Or three?"

She sighed. "Or three."

"Thanks, Cap'n."

Valerie's caustic reply died on her lips as her helmet speakers came alive with the voice of one of the sensor techs in the cargo hold. "Course change, romeo eight-six and romeo eight-seven. New heading is 25 by neg 12. Bearing 203 by 13 relative. Range 4.9 light minutes."

Her Ops Officer looked up from his display. "Two charlie-class warbirds. They'll come within point two-four light minutes of our position on their new heading." That was well within the range in which rommie sensors could detect a ship moving under impulse.

"Do they know we're here?" Valerie asked.

"Don't think so..." Lieutenant Knox replied. "Their speed is constant; it's probably just a random course change."

"ETA?"

"Twelve minutes. But we'll be inside their sensor range in five."

Valerie took a moment to ponder the situation. There was a rommie minefield to the front and a rommie patrol on her flank. Sitting tight was not an option; they had to move out of the way.

Complicating the analysis was the time-critical nature of Pathfinder 17's mission. Every bit of data from the her high-resolution sensor arrays and all the telemetry from her remote sensor drones was stored aboard the ship. She could not transmit it to fleet without breaking comm silence and revealing her position. The only way to get it to the people who needed it was to physically deliver it, but they had to get it out within the next two hours or the data was worthless. Unfortunately, the best routes to avoid the rommie patrol took her back into the Rho Virg system, adding too much time to the mission.

She made her decision: She would skirt the edges of the minefield as closely as she dared, accepting the additional risk in order to get the data out in a timely fashion. "Al, set course 18 by 10. Half impulse."

"Course 18 by 10, half impulse, aye."

It would be eight minutes before _Zierden_ and _Thrakyll_ reached the outskirts of the minefield. Valerie settled back to wait while butterflies frolicked in her stomach.

#####

"Power signatures, bearing 266 by neg 24 relative, range 2.2 light minutes. Multiple mine activations..." The voice belonged to one of the unnamed sensor techs in the launch bay, and it was the very last thing Valerie wanted to hear. After nine uneventful minutes, she had begun to believe her gamble had paid off; that they would actually make it past the minefield. Evidently it was not to be.

"How many?" she asked.

There was a long silence. "Twenty-two."

_Damn!_ "Helm, steer 86 by 24, full impulse." The new course would take them directly away from the mines and buy them a little time.

"They're launching! Twenty-two launch signatures... Impact in two minutes."

She stared in horror at the tactical display, at the tracks of twenty-two torpedoes converging on the two ships of Pathfinder 17. Only one of which was armed.

"_Thrakyll_ is firing torpedoes, engaging inbounds."

It _might_ be enough. Maybe. _Dear God, let it be enough..._

"Captain, _Thrakyll_ has broken formation. She's turning toward the inbound torpedoes."

Ice formed on her heart. "Open a channel. Now!"

"Channel open."

"Jalvareth, what the hell are you doing? Get back in formation."

The channel was audio only, but there was no mistaking Jalvareth's distinctive chuckle. "Valerie, you _know_ what I am doing. I have a duty to ensure _Zierden's_ safe return, and I intend to do just that."

"Damn it, Jalvareth, that was an order! Get back in formation."

Another chuckle. "I'm afraid that is not possible. I regret I must withdraw your invitation to my quarters tonight. Ah, Valerie, I had such plans for us! Such marvelous plans..."

"Jalvareth..?"

"Be safe, Valerie. Be safe. _Thrakyll_ out."

"Jalvareth!" Valerie gasped, but there was no answer as the connection light on her console winked out. She watched helplessly as _Thrakyll's_ icon on the tactical display pulled away from _Zierden._ The tracks of the inbound torpedoes curved in towards _Thrakyll_. They met, then there was nothing.

"Jalvareth..." she whispered.

Tears streamed from her eyes, but her officers pretended not to notice. The bridge was silent as _Zierden_ sped to safety.

#####

_**Amarith**_**, en route to Andoria, 21 Mar 2159 (H minus 3 hours)**

T'Pol's eyes snapped open as the door buzzer announced a visitor to her quarters. She had been ensconced within Trip's arms in her meditation space when they both drifted off to sleep. A quick check of the bond revealed that Trip was still sleeping soundly and she took a moment to send a wave of warm affection to his slumbering mind before rising from her bunk.

She smoothed the covers with a pass of her hand, did the same to her sleep-mussed hair, and opened the door. Thaleen stood in the passageway outside.

"Special Agent Thaleen," she said.

"Commander T'Pol. May I come in?"

She quirked an eyebrow, but stood to one side and allowed him entrance. _Interesting. I am 'Commander T'Pol' now, not 'Vulcan criminal'_.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, taking in her attire. Her feet were bare, and she was dressed in Imperial Guard athletic clothing; the Andorian version of running shorts and T-shirt.

"Yes."

He made no apology, but got straight to the point. "I am here to determine whether you are a murderer."

"Is not my guilt or innocence the province of your courts?"

"It is," Thaleen replied, "but I am not here in any official capacity. I desire to know for my own edification. For... personal reasons."

"I am not sure how I can help you."

"You can tell me what happened – no, not _what_ happened, that is well documented. Tell me _why_. Why did you ignore your orders to safeguard _Ketalan_? Why did you choose to save a Human ship over an Andorian one? And do not think to lie. You are not the first Vulcan I have questioned; I will know if you are lying."

"I will not lie."

"Good. So, tell me Commander, _are_ you a murderer?"

"No."

"Then why did you allow _Ketalan_ to be destroyed when it was in your power to save her?"

T'Pol met Thaleen's gaze as she considered his question. Her training as a field agent in the V'Shar had included a class in reading Andorian moods from the position of their antennae, but her long exposure to Humans had given her a facility for reading facial expressions that she'd been surprised to find carried over to Andorians. Thaleen's expression showed some wariness, but no overt hostility. He seemed genuinely interested in her answer, something the position of his antennae alone would never have revealed. _I wonder how different our past dealings with Andorians would have been if we had been more adept at reading their moods?_

"Commander?" he prompted.

"It came down to a single choice," T'Pol said. "I was in a position to aid _Ketalan_ or _Galloway_, I could not aid both. I chose _Galloway_ because I believed a warship was more important to the war effort than a civilian freighter, and because I knew the Romulans would leave no survivors if they destroyed Galloway. At that time, I did not realize they would also kill any civilian survivors."

"Murder, not kill."

"Yes. Murder."

Thaleen's gaze never once wavered from her face as he judged her veracity. "Then you bear no ill-will or animosity toward Andorians?"

"None."

"Despite the fact that you served with the Vulcan Security Directorate? Oh, yes, we are very much aware of your background. Agents of the V'Shar – current _or_ former – are of special interest to our own intelligence groups."

"Despite that fact. I once believed Andorians to be a belligerent, irrational, and overly-emotional species. I have since come to realize that was just High Command propaganda with no basis in fact, but even then I never hated Andorians."

"What about me? Do you hate me?"

"No."

"Are you certain? I was belligerent toward you. I treated you roughly. I would have confined you to a cell, were I able. You have no issue with that?"

"I believe you were simply doing your job according to your best understanding of the situation. The fact that we are now having this discussion tends to prove my assessment is correct."

Thaleen continued his stare for several long moments before speaking. "Astonishing as it may seem, I find myself believing you. A Vulcan telling the truth... I certainly never thought to see such a thing."

"It happens with greater frequency than you might suspect," T'Pol said.

Thaleen actually smiled at that. "Yes, I suppose it does," he said, then his smile faded. "You realize this changes nothing. Even now, dozens of skilled investigators – all convinced of your guilt – are tirelessly developing a case against you. They are delving into your background on multiple worlds, including Vulcan. They are seeking out any and all facts that will support their case, regardless how trivial."

"I understand. My innocence is not the issue. It was never the issue. I am prepared for what is to come."

"Are you?" Thaleen asked, and for a brief moment T'Pol thought he seemed almost... sad. "Can _any_ Vulcan be prepared for Andorian justice? Do you even know what to expect?"

"I will endure." _I must endure. I have promised Trip_.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "perhaps you will. I believe Captain Akani is right about one thing: You have great courage. An Andorian's courage."

T'Pol's only response was a simple "Thank you."

Thaleen continued in a more brusque tone. "This does not mean I am ready to trust Vulcans in general, mind you. It will take a great deal of proof to convince me your government has changed for the better. Your fellow Vulcans have committed many grave offenses against Andoria."

"Agent Thaleen, while I must agree with you regarding the past misdeeds of my people, you should not harbor any misconceptions that _only_ Vulcan is responsible for the conflict between our peoples. Andoria is not completely blameless."

"As for that, I am not in a position to say," Thaleen replied. "For now I will simply concede that the possibility exists." It was not an outright denial, and he smiled as he said it, leaving T'Pol with a hopeful feeling. _If an anti-Vulcan hardliner like Thaleen is willing to consider Andorian culpability, __perhaps there is hope for the Coalition after the war_.

Thaleen moved toward the door, still smiling. "Commander, You have given me much to ponder, but I must take my leave. The attack on Rho Virginis is scheduled to commence soon and Captain Akani has invited me to the officers' mess to view the subspace data feeds. Are you... will you be joining us?"

"No. I will monitor events from here." _With Trip_.

"I see. Then I wish you a good day." With that, he left, and T'Pol closed the door behind him. She couldn't be sure, but she had the distinct impression he had been _disappointed_ she wouldn't be there.

#####

_**Amarith**_**, en route to Andoria, 21 Mar 2159 (H-hour)**

Try as he might, Thaleen could make no sense of the tactical repeater that had been hastily installed at one end of the officers' mess. To his untrained eye, it was a jumble of highly cryptic, multicolored symbols slowly moving across what he could only presume was a depiction of the Rho Virginis system. A white symbol near the display's center he presumed to represent the star Rho Virginis, but beyond that he was at a loss. Judging by the engrossed expressions on the face s around him, no one else in the room was experiencing similar difficulties. Then again, _they_ were all trained officers of the Imperial Guard.

Terse Andorian voices crackled from a speaker somewhere in the room. It was apparently an audio feed from one of the Andorian fleets, but that was all his limited knowledge allowed him to discern. Consisting of quick vocal exchanges and clipped commands, the voices were marginally less cryptic than the display; at least he understood the words, if not their contexts.

"These tactical consoles can be intimidating on the first encounter."

Thaleen turned toward the voice, and saw a young Lieutenant standing next to him. "What could possibly be intimidating about a meaningless display of randomly moving dots? Lieutenant..?"

"Korodal. I am Lieutenant Korodal."

Thaleen recognized him immediately. _He is the young officer who asked T'Pol that pointed question about Vulcan intentions following the war_, he recalled. "I am Special Agent Thaleen."

"Yes, I know. If you wish, I could interpret these... these 'randomly moving dots' for you."

"That would be very helpful."

Lieutenant Korodal looked him up and down as he considered where to begin. "The blue symbols are Coalition forces, the red are Romulan," he began. "There is a–"

"That seems an odd choice of colors," Thaleen said, interrupting. "Blue is the color of blood. Shouldn't the Romulans be blue?"

"Normally you would be correct, but this is Human technology and we are using their color scheme. We could change it, of course, but the Humans sometimes refer to units by color, and it tends to be... confusing to have different colors or symbols. Better that all systems display identical data."

"This is Human technology?"

"Yes. It is essential that all Coalition forces have the ability to exchange sensor data and command information in real time. Starfleet's systems were the easiest to adapt for Coalition-wide use, so that is what we are using. The Vulcans and Tellarites use it as well."

"Astonishing," Thaleen murmured. _That Humans would share such sensitive knowledge with others seems extremely foolish._

"Astonishing indeed. Of all the technology that was transferred, this turned out to be the most challenging. It took over a year of tweaking before we were able to seamlessly exchange data between Coalition ships. By comparison, Tellarite disruptor technology and Vulcan engine improvements were integrated within months."

"Vulcan shared their warp technology? With _us_?"

"If they had not, they would have been left completely out of the technology exchange."

"We exchanged technology with the Vulcans..?" Thaleen wasn't sure which surprised him more; the fact that Andoria and Vulcan had traded military technology, or the matter-of-fact way with which Lieutenant Korodal explained it to him.

"And the Humans and Tellarites, too," Korodal added helpfully.

"Is Chancellor Shalin aware of this?"

"Yes. He approved it. Reluctantly. If he hadn't, we would not have received anything from the other Coalition members. No engine upgrades. No disruptor improvements. No countermeasure systems. And none of those remarkable Human torpedoes. The Chancellor really had no choice."

"Still... I can barely believe what I'm hearing. Andoria sharing our military secrets with Vulcan. And vice versa. Tell me, Lieutenant. Do you trust them? The Vulcans?"

Lieutenant Korodal was silent for a long moment. "No," he said, "I do not trust the Vulcans. Not completely. But Captain T'Pol was right when she said Earth would not allow Vulcan to drag them into a fight with Andoria. Without Earth, Vulcan could not win."

"You trust Captain T'Pol?"

Korodal seemed mildly surprised by the question. "Of course. You do not?'

Now it was Thaleen who was silent while Korodal's simple question forced him to confront the astonishing truth. He _did_ trust her. More than that, he actually found himself beginning to _like_ her. "It seems... it seems I do," he replied in a quiet voice.

Korodal accepted Thaleen's answer without comment. "Do you wish me to continue my explanation of the tactical display?" he asked.

"Yes. Please do."

"There is a legend of symbols you can refer to," Korodal told him, pointing at a remote corner of the display. "Different symbols represent different things. Classes of ships or groups of ships. Squadrons and task forces. Even torpedoes and mines. You won't see many individual ships right now because the display is zoomed out to show the entire system, but each ship symbol has a line of varying length and direction radiating out to show its current velocity vector. That little box you see above some of the symbols has status information that can be–"

Once more Thaleen interrupted Korodal's explanation. "Lieutenant, perhaps it would be best if you just tell me what is happening, rather than try to teach me how to make sense of _that_."

"Very well, sir," Korodal said, giving him an amused look. "Look there. And there. Two large Coalition forces are converging on Rho Virginis from two directions. The first, Fleet Group One, is tasked with capturing and destroying the shipyards and logistic facilities around Rho Virginis. Fleet Group Two will engage the Romulan forces concentrated in these three areas." He paused while his index finger pointed out the three locations. "Fleet Group Two's mission is to keep the Romulan fleet occupied while Fleet Group One destroys the shipyards."

Thaleen's eyes flickered between the three indicated areas. "There are no Romulan symbols in that third area," he pointed out.

"Yes," Korodal said, and his grim tone precipitated a sharp glance from Thaleen, "We suspect there are Romulans there, but we don't _know_. Not for sure. We sent scouts in ahead of our fleets. Many did not return."

Thaleen swallowed hard. "How many?"

Korodal's finger indicated a spot off to one side of the display. "That is the casualty box. The icons of ships presumed lost or destroyed are shifted from the tactical display to there. Those are all ships that did not return from the pathfinder missions."

Thaleen leaned in to get a closer look; it seemed to be a disturbingly large number. "How... how many were ours?" he asked softly.

Korodal's antenna went rigid. "_All_ of them," he said, fixing Thaleen with an expression turned to ice. "Andorian. Human. Tellarite. Vulcan. _All_ were ours."

He turned to stalk away, but Thaleen hurried after him. "Lieutenant, wait! Permit me to apologize."

Korodal turned back, a disdainful look on his face. "Did you learn nothing from Captain T'Pol last night?"

"I learned much," Thaleen admitted, "but this... this is still very new to me. Back on Andoria, we hear little of how it truly is out here."

Korodal's expression softened, and Thaleen took advantage of the opening. "Please. I want to know what is happening. I need someone to interpret the display for me."

Korodal grunted his assent and rejoined Thaleen. "I suppose if I didn't help, you'd just pester someone else."

Thaleen tried unsuccessfully not to smile. "Undoubtedly," he agreed.

#####

_**Amarith**_**, en route to Andoria, 21 Mar 2159 (H plus four hours)**

Lieutenant Korodal choked back an involuntary gasp.

"What?" Thaleen asked, his eyes darting from the Lieutenant to the display and back. "What is it?"

"Mines!"

Thaleen followed Korodal's eyes, and saw that a new group of symbols had suddenly appeared on the display in an area that been empty just moments before. "Are they Romulan?" He asked, then immediately answered his own question, "They're red. That means they're Romulan."

"Yes," Korodal confirmed, "and they're active. Almost two-hundred are inbound. Impact in... two minutes."

_Two minutes?_ Thaleen did not need Korodal's expert eye to tell him that the mines-turned-torpedoes were targeting a Coalition task force that had been dispatched to intercept a Romulan Battle Group trying to reach the beleaguered shipyards. "We have countermeasures, right? Some way to... to defeat them?"

"There are too many," Korodal replied, in a voice gone flat.

_Two minutes_. Thaleen thought, as he watched the Romulan torpedoes converging on the task force. He tried to imagine himself on one of those ships. Tried to imagine himself watching the approach of certain death. "How do they do it?" he asked. "How do _you_ do it? How do you function when you know you only have minutes to live?

"You just do your duty," Korodal said, as if the answer were obvious. Inexplicably, his face broke into a grin so savage it would freeze the blood of an ice demon. "Besides, no Romulan torpedo is half as frightening as our Platoon Sergeants back in Guard training."

Thaleen couldn't help it. At that moment, every bit of the childhood awe that he had held for the Imperial Guard came rushing back, and his Andorian heart swelled with a fierce pride.

His pride faded moments later, when the Romulan torpedoes finally reached their targets. Scores of Coalition symbols on the display flashed yellow then vanished, only to reappear within the casualty box. His pride faded, pushed aside by the shock of so many deaths, so many ships lost. His pride faded, but it did not vanish. It would _never_ vanish again. It was something Thaleen knew he would carry inside himself for the rest of his life.

A subdued murmur arose, and Thaleen saw that every eye in the room was fixed on the display with a fierce intensity that had been missing just moments before. "What is happening?" he asked."

Korodal also stared at the display, his antenna fairly vibrating. "Our ships were able to salvo their torpedoes before they were destroyed," he declared. "Look!"

Thaleen turned his attention back to the display and saw a large group of the now-familiar torpedo symbols crawling toward the Romulan force, but _these_ symbols were blue. _Coalition_.

"They are the latest Starfleet torpedoes, with heavily-shielded fission warheads," Korodal explained. "We learned yesterday that they can survive a direct hit from a Romulan disruptor and still reach their targets. The Romulans are about to pay a steep price for the blood they've shed!"

It seemed to take forever but was actually less than a minute before the torpedoes reached their Romulan targets. On the display, red icons flashed yellow, then quietly vanished. It was a pale shadow of the terrible reality taking place light years away, where dozens of ships and hundreds of lives were being consumed by raging infernos of nuclear fire. The enemies of Andoria – those who threatened the Mother world – were being vanquished in combat, and the battle-growl of the Andorian warrior erupted spontaneously from the throat of every Guardsman in the room.

Thaleen stiffened at the sound and a primal thrill coursed through his body. He had an almost instinctive urge to add his voice to the chorus, but he fought it down. He had not earned _that_ privilege. Instead, he turned to Lieutenant Korodal, still bristling beside him. "Is it always like this?" he asked.

"No. Korodal answered, and there was a harsh quality to his voice. "This time is different. This time our comrades fight without us."

Thaleen did not think it odd that he shared Korodal's outrage.

#####

_**Tiger**_**, Rho Virginis, 22 Mar 2159 (H plus twenty-one hours)**

Commander Malcolm Reed staggered as he left sickbay, steadying himself with a shoulder against the bulkhead. Seven of his crew lay inside – two dead from their injuries and one barely hanging on to life – but after three years of war, he was accustomed to the butcher's bill.

No, the reason he found himself barely able to stand had nothing to do with the casualties, horrific though they were. He was simply exhausted, physically and mentally, from the tremendous strain of command. A command he had held for only ten days, now. A command he had assumed just nine days before the largest fleet action of the war.

He'd been getting by on very little sleep, relying on adrenaline and coffee to keep him going. Now that the immediate danger was past, his body seemed to be insisting that it was time to pay the piper.

Malcolm was certainly no stranger to imminent danger, nor to the physical demands of endless hours on the bridge, but he was finding it was somehow different in the command chair. More intense. He was no longer just forwarding reports and courses of action to the faceless officers at higher headquarters, or making tactical recommendations to the unflappable Captain Archer. Now _he_ had to be the unflappable one. Now _he_ was the one making the final decisions. Decisions for which there was no appeal. No margin for error.

If he was wrong, crewmen died.

Lieutenant Commander Susan Kyle, _Tiger's_ First Officer, followed her Captain from sickbay and saw him sagging against the bulkhead. She folded her arms, an expression of stern disapproval on her face. "Dammit, sir. When was the last time you got any sleep?"

Malcolm took a deep breath and willed himself to stand. "Sleep? What's that?"

"Something us mere mortals can't live without. Do I need to drag you back into sickbay to see Doc?"

"No, I'm fine. Really. I need to check in with ChEng. We're running on one converter, aft shields are down, two decks are completely–"

"Captain."

"–depressurized, and... Uh, what is it, Susan?"

"Do you want me to relieve the Chief Engineer?"

Malcolm blinked in confusion. "Good heavens, no! Why would I want you to do that?"

She shrugged. "Maybe because you don't trust him to do his job without looking over his shoulder? You are dead on your feet, sir. You can't walk a straight line – hell you can barely stand up! – yet you insist on personally overseeing every tiny detail of _Tiger's_ operations. The message you're sending your officers is that you don't trust them to do their jobs. I realize you're new to this ship, Captain, but I can assure you that your officers are _very_ good at their jobs."

Malcolm rubbed at his eyes and sighed. "Looks like you're very good at yours, too," he said with a tired smile. "Thanks, Susan. I guess I _could_ use some sleep. Wake me immediately if... if... Hell, just use your discretion."

"Aye, sir. And Captain?"

He gave his First Officer an inquiring look.

"You gave the rommies hell today."

He grinned and stood a little straighter. "_We_ gave the rommies hell today, Commander. _We_ did."

#####

_**Chosin**_**, Rho Virginis sector, 22 Mar 2159 (H plus twenty-nine hours)**

"Come in."

The door to the Captain's cabin sighed open, and Chief Verley entered, clutching two PADDs in one hand. "Evening, Captain. Got a few minutes?"

Trip was seated at the desk, a chessboard in front of him with a game in progress. He pushed back from the desk and waved Verley to the bunk. "Sure, Chief, have a seat. Another crisis?"

"No sir. Not this time."

"Glad to hear it," Tucker said. His eyes cut to the PADDs in Verley's hand. "I'm guessing this is not a social visit, since you didn't bring the Vodka."

"Actually, Commander Saracco and I finished what was left of that yesterday. I think she earned it."

"No argument there," Tucker agreed. "So, what's up?"

Verley leaned forward, extending the first of the PADD's. "Award recommendation for Torpedo Technician Third Class Glen Hodges. He first dreamed up the idea for the torpedo six-pack, and he probably did more than anyone else to move it from paper to prototype. It saved our butts in the Teenebian sector, and it sure as hell saved Fleet's butt at Rho Virg yesterday. Without the six-packs, all those rommie mines would have ripped us to pieces."

Trip took the PADD and his eyebrows lifted. "Silver Palm Award? You're not messing around here." The Silver Palm was the highest Starfleet award for meritorious service or distinguished conduct not involving combat against an armed enemy.

"You think it's too much?" Verley asked. "I could rewrite it for a Bronze Star..."

Like everyone else on the ship, Trip had been glued to the subspace data feeds coming out of Rho Virginis as Operation Drumhead unfolded. And like everyone else, he had been astonished by the sheer number of rommie minefields in the space around Rho Virginis. Without the Pathfinder missions to pinpoint the minefields' locations and the six-packs to defend against their onslaught, Coalition forces would have been slaughtered in a bloodbath of unthinkable proportions. Even so, it had been a near thing: once the Coalition's inventory of torpedoes had been exhausted defending against mines, the fight had been resolved at close range, with phase-cannons and disruptors.

No, a Silver Palm was not too much.

"Send it to my inbox. I'll approve it, and if those bastards at Fleet try to downgrade it they're gonna have a fight on their hands." He handed the PADD back to Verley.

"Aye, sir."

"What else you got?" Trip asked.

Verley extended the second PADD. "This just came from BuShips."

It was a diagram of a ship, but not a design Trip was familiar with.

"The latest Vulcan Combat Cruiser," Verley explained. "She's still under construction at the V'Kahl shipyards."

"Vulcan? Are you sure? She has twin nacelles. Every Vulcan ship I've ever seen has an annular warp drive."

Verley grinned. "According to BuShips, the Vulcans switched to a twin nacelle design so they could take advantage of all _your_ innovations."

Trip matched Verley's grin. "I'll be damned. Vulcans copying Human warp technology? Wait'll Captain Archer hears this."

"They should name her after you. How about _T'Rip_? Or even better, _T'Ker_."

Trip snorted in amusement. "T'Ker means 'of or belonging to the skin blemish.' Not even the Vulcans would name a ship _that_."

"Then _T'Rip_ it is." Verley declared with mock solemnity. "Too bad the vodka's gone, or we could toast the good ship _T'Rip_."

"To the good ship _T'Rip_," Trip chuckled, raising an imaginary glass.

Verley lapsed into silence, while classical music played softly in the background. He glanced at the chessboard on the desk. "Working on a chess problem?"

"Nah," Trip answered. "T'Pol and I are playing a game."

"Playing chess with a Vulcan? You're a brave man."

"Actually, we're pretty evenly matched. My knowledge of the opening game is better, since I've been playing for years. But if I don't get her on the ropes early, she kicks my ass in the end game."

Verley briefly studied the board. "I'd give you some advice, but chess isn't my game. Checkers, now. I'm pretty good at checkers."

"So is T'Pol. You should play her sometime."

"I'd like that." Verley said softly.

"So would T'Pol. There's not much for her to do on _Amarith_."

"You're, uh, talking to her? Now?"

"Yes."

Verley nodded his understanding, then stood. "I'll get out of your hair, then. Good night, Captain. Good night, Khart-lan."

"Night, Chief.

Verley let himself out and headed for his quarters. _If I'm playing checkers with a Vulcan, I'd better __brush up on my game._

**Continued in Chapter Seven**


	7. Chapter 7

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol faces charges in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**SEVEN**

**The Callium, Romulus, 23 Mar 2159**

Vokalus did not need to see the situation displayed prominently on the Praetor's briefing table to know that Rho Virginis had fallen. That much had been obvious to him from the moment his guards – with a suddenly-respectful attitude and bearing a uniform with Grand Marshal rank – had released him from the tiny cell he occupied deep beneath the Imperial Fortress at Drevax.

No, the question was not whether Rho Virginis had fallen, but how much had been lost in its defense. Knowing Krotash and his reckless streak of bloodthirsty arrogance, Vokalus could only fear the worst.

The Praetor was not present and neither was Krotash, a fact for which Vokalus was grateful. The only other person in the room was Krotash's Chief of Staff, whose tight-lipped, ashen face seemed to confirm Vokalus' worst fears.

"How bad is it?" he asked, approaching the table.

"Very bad," the Chief of Staff replied nervously.

Vokalus took several moments to study the display. He grunted with displeasure at what he saw, then turned his steady gaze on the officer fidgeting beside him. "What is your name?"

"Parnius," he gulped, "Admiral Parnius."

"Well, Parnius, it appears you are _my_ Chief of Staff now. What were the Rho Virginis Fleet's last orders?"

"All surviving vessels have been ordered back to Romulus, Grand Marshal."

"I see. And the orders for our Fleets in Coalition space? At Lanus?"

"They are to continue preparations for a strike at Earth."

Vokalus blinked in disbelief. "Incredible," he muttered. Then, in a normal tone, "Call in your Operations and Planning staffs, Admiral. The Praetor expects to be briefed in four hours and much remains to be done before then."

He turned his attention back to the display while Parnius hurried from the room.

#####

Right on schedule, the Praetor swept into the briefing room, a string of aides and advisors swirling in his wake. He took up his customary position by the table while his advisors arrayed themselves along the wall. "Tell me, Vokalus," he said without preamble, as if that very morning Vokalus hadn't been in a tiny cell serving out a life sentence for treason. "Can the situation be salvaged?"

"Perhaps, Your Magnificence."

The Praetor frowned. "Perhaps..? Is the situation truly that dire?"

"Yes, Magnificence. When we lost Rho Virginis, we lost our forward supply depots and repair facilities. Worse than that, our stockpiles of torpedoes were completely destroyed. It will take at least a year to replace them at our current manufacturing rate. But worst of all, the Coalition now smells victory. They will be keen to press their advantage."

"What do you propose, then?"

Vokalus did not hesitate. "I will divert the forces that are retreating from Rho Virginis to Terix, where they will regroup and rearm. They are currently all that stand between the Coalition and Romulus. At the same time, I will recall our fleets from Lanus. They are fully combat-ready and are needed back here. I intend to use them to mount a counter-offensive to retake Rho Virginis."

"Krotash believes we should continue the attack on Earth," the Praetor remarked.

"Krotash is a bloodthirsty fool. If we attack Earth, the Coalition will attack Romulus. While it is true that the Coalition cannot stop us from taking Earth, it is equally true that we cannot stop them from taking Romulus. If we destroy Earth's cities, they will destroy ours. The destruction will start right here, at the Callium."

"Very well," the Praetor said, "we will implement your plan. As for Krotash, he has failed me. I leave his fate in your hands."

That gave Vokalus pause. _How many times have I dreamed of cutting his heart out?_ he thought. _Yet now that the opportunity presents itself, I find myself reluctant. It is a distraction I do not need at the moment._ He knew it would be better if someone else dealt with Krotash, but he also sensed that the Praetor would not relent on this matter. "Yes, Magnificence," he said. He would shelve the problem until later. Right now, he had to save the Romulan Star Empire from military defeat.

The Praetor moved on, Krotash and his fate already forgotten. "How confident are you of the success of this plan?"

Vokalus considered the question carefully. "In public? Extremely confident. In this room? Not very. The Coalition grows stronger every day, and they have dealt a serious blow to our logistic capabilities. We must now launch our supply convoys from Romulus, which adds nearly four weeks of round-trip time to our resupply runs. It will require even _more_ cargo ships to transport supplies at the same rate as before, but after that disastrous engagement with the frigate _Chosin_ three days ago, we now have _twenty_ fewer cargo ships in our merchant fleet. That's over eight-hundred _thousand_ cubic meters of cargo capacity. I understand that the ship carrying Prime Consul Galtan was the only one to survive the battle. I sincerely hope her survival was worth the enormous cost."

The Praetor's eyes hardened at the implied censure in Vokalus' statement, but he honored the unspoken arrangement that existed between them: Vokalus would be Grand Marshal of his military forces, and in exchange would be permitted to speak the truth as he saw it. The Praetor did not much care for the arrangement, but he liked the humiliating defeat his forces had suffered at Rho Virginis even less.

"Consul Galtan is a valued advisor," the Praetor replied, "but I believe the Empire would benefit more from the cargo capacity of twenty freighters than from her advice. Counselors and advisors are easily replaced." He glanced meaningfully at his entourage arrayed around the room.

Their suddenly-anxious looks brought a tight smile to his face, then he turned his attention back to Vokalus. "It would appear this frigate remains a hazard to our forces, despite the arrest of her Vulcan Captain. I grow weary of hearing the name _Chosin_ at these briefings."

Vokalus raised his eyebrows in surprise. "_Chosin's_ Captain arrested? Captain T'Pol? I have not heard this."

At a gesture from the Praetor, Admiral Parnius gave a hasty summary of events in the Teneebian sector leading up to T'Pol's arrest: the naval engagement, the death of Chancellor Shalin's son, Shalin's threat to withdraw the Imperial Guard, and T'Pol's subsequent surrender to the Andorian authorities.

"Would that I had ten such Captains under me," Vokalus murmured, when Parnius had completed his summary.

"Better that the Coalition have one _less_ such ship under _them_," the Praetor remarked, his exasperation plainly evident. "In fact, this ship has been a pebble in my boot for far too long. Can anything be done about her, Vokalus?"

He pondered the Praetor's question before answering. "Perhaps... The Coalition tends to use _Chosin_ on the peripheries of the battle. For screening and interdiction missions. For raids. I might be able to devise a trap for her..."

"Good. I look forward to hearing of _Chosin's_ destruction."

#####

_**Enterprise**_**, Rho Virginis, 24 Mar 2159**

For the first time since war's beginning, Starfleet's First, Second, Third and Fifth Fleets were in the same star system at the same time, and Jonathon Archer had taken advantage of that fact to get his former officers together again, even if it _was_ only for dinner in the Captain's Mess.

Trip, Malcolm, Hoshi, Travis... they all had a place at his table, yet his joy at their presence was muted by sadness for the one missing: _T'Pol_. If the somber expressions around him were any indication, he wasn't the only one affected by her absence.

The steward entered with their meals, and the already quiet room grew even quieter. A plate with a generous helping of roast chicken was set in front of Archer, and the succulent aroma brought a distant smile to his face as he recalled how T'Pol's nose would crinkle in thinly veiled distaste at the smell. He also recalled that she never once complained. _She was a trooper from the very beginning_, Archer reflected._ What wouldn't I do to see that crinkled nose again? What wouldn't I give to have her here with us now_? He shot a concerned glance at Trip. _If __I__ miss her this much, how bad must it be for him?_

Trip caught the tail end of Archer's look and he heaved a mighty sigh. Setting his fork on his plate with exaggerated deliberateness, he glared around the table. "Would y'all just knock it off?" he said loudly. "She's _gone_. She's not _dead_."

They exchanged startled looks but no one spoke, and Trip continued in a gentler tone, "I miss her too, but you're all cat-footing around like you're at a funeral. That's just plain nuts." He waved an arm at the window, but kept his eyes locked on them. "Just look. Look out there! _That's_ Rho Virginis, people. _Rho Virginis_. _That's_ fourteen Coalition fleets that just kicked the shit out of the rommies and destroyed their main logistic bases. _That's_ the reason T'Pol's not here. It's pretty obvious we couldn't have pulled this off without the six andie fleets, and it's just as obvious the andies wouldn't be here if T'Pol hadn't done what she did. So instead of moping around, how about we celebrate T'Pol for having what it takes to hold this Coalition together? How about we celebrate a victory that brings us one step closer to ending this God-awful war? How about we celebrate this gathering of close friends? And for crying out loud, how about we celebrate Hoshi and Mal's wedding? They haven't been married two weeks yet!"

Malcolm affected a puzzled look. "Only two weeks? It sure _seems_ longer..."

Hoshi swatted him on the arm. "Watch it, buster. I'll send you back to _Tiger_ without your supper. Or anything else." Her expression left no doubt what she meant by 'anything else'.

And just like that, the ice was broken.

Laughter and good-natured banter flew around the table, and Archer leaned back in his chair, absorbing it all with a satisfied smile. _Now THIS is more like it_, he thought. _God bless you, Trip. And you, T'Pol_.

#####

_**Amarith**_**, in orbit around Andoria, 2 Apr 2159**

T'Pol was roused from her meditation by the electronic rasp of the door buzzer. Opening her eyes, she extinguished the candle with a gentle puff of breath and rose to her feet. _It is time_.

She placed the candle on the desk, then neatly refolded the blanket she had been using as a cushion and set it on the bed. Only then did she open the door. "Good day, Special Agent Thaleen."

"Good day, Commander. Are you ready?"

"Yes," she answered. "Unless you require me to change clothing." She was wearing her Starfleet uniform, freshly laundered and pressed, but knew that protocol dictated she should be in prison-green.

"Your uniform is fine. This way, please," Thaleen indicated that she should precede him down the passageway.

"Should you not shackle me?"

"Why?" he asked, amused by the question. "So you won't escape? I suspect if I gave you a map to the Courthouse and let you go, you'd find your own way there."

"Your superiors might not understand if you deliver me like this," T'Pol pointed out, lifting her unfettered arms for emphasis.

"Commander T'Pol," Thaleen said, in a tone of disbelief, "with all the hardships that wait for you on Andoria, you're still concerned for _my_ welfare? Are you deliberately trying to confound me?"

"There are not so many Andorians who believe me innocent that I can afford to cause them any trouble."

Thaleen had to smile. "There won't be any trouble. My orders are to deliver you to the Imperial Courthouse in Laibok and that's exactly what I'll do. What you wear and whether you're shackled are well within my prerogatives as arresting officer. Besides, Captain Akani would _not_ be pleased to see you in restraints. He might finally make good on his threat to have me thrown in the brig."

"He has shown a remarkable degree of enthusiasm for that idea," T'Pol observed.

Thaleen's smile broadened. "Yes. And I am equally enthusiastic about avoiding it. Now let's go, we have a shuttle waiting."

They made their way to the forward airlock, where an Andorian stood waiting. T'Pol recognized him as Sergeant Barriv, the young Guardsman who had acted as her escort during her first few days aboard _Amarith_.

"The Captain's greetings, and your presence is requested in his office," Barriv said, in the overly-formal manner that T'Pol had come to expect from him. He led them up three levels to the Captain's office and ushered them inside. He closed the door behind them, remaining in the passageway outside.

Captain Akani's expressive face beamed at their entrance. "Commander T'Pol, Special Agent Thaleen. Please, come in. I would not have you leave without a proper farewell. I apologize for the absence of my officers, but this is _Amarith's_ first visit to Andoria since the war's beginning. Most of my crew have already left. On leave, yes?"

"I understand," T'Pol said. "I trust you will also have the chance to see your family."

"Of course! I will certainly see them, but first I must attend to my ship. To my _Amarith_, yes? She has much old battle damage. A visit to the shipyards would do her well, I think."

"They might even repair the 'terrible engine problems' that have plagued us all the way here," Thaleen remarked dryly.

Akani's booming laugh filled the small office. "Did I not tell you? My engineers have finally corrected that. They tell me the engines are now in top condition. Top! Most remarkable, yes?"

"Yes," Thaleen agreed, "most remarkable."

Akani's gaze settled on T'Pol, and his expression grew somber. "Commander, I regret we must now part. Whatever the future holds, I will never forget what you have done for Andoria – what you do, even now. May Larashkail grant you protection and keep you from harm in your coming ordeal."

"Thank you Captain. And thank you for the great kindness you and your crew have shown me."

Akani made a dismissive noise. "A small thing."

"Not at all. My crew knows of your kindness, and through them all of Starfleet."

"Ah. That is good. Good that _Amarith_ may yet salvage a sliver of honor, despite her role in this dark business."

"There is no deficit of honor aboard _Amarith_," T'Pol said in a firm voice. She hesitated, then continued in a softer tone, "However... there is something I wish you to have." She pulled a small, flat object from her pocket and extended it toward Akani.

He could not mask his astonishment when he realized what T'Pol had given him. It was the _Chosin_ patch from her Starfleet uniform. She had removed it the night before, determined that someone who could understand and respect what it represented would have it, rather than allow it to be confiscated by uncaring bureaucrats.

Akani was clearly moved by the gesture. "Commander, I... this is... I..." he stammered. For the first time in T'Pol's experience the exuberant Andorian was at a loss for words. He blinked furiously, then turned back toward his desk. "Ah... I should... I should get back to work," he stated brusquely.

T'Pol shot Thaleen a meaningful glance, and he quickly divined her intent. "We should leave now," he said. "The shuttle waits."

They were heading out the door when Captain Akani found his voice. "Special Agent Thaleen," he said, not looking up from his desk.

"Yes?"

"Take care of her."

"I'll do what I can," he replied truthfully.

#####

T'Pol took a seat on the shuttle and spent a moment examining the safety belt's alien fasteners before securing them across her hips. Thaleen occupied the seat next to hers and strapped in with the ease of long familiarity. There were ten more seats in the shuttle's interior cabin, but they remained unoccupied – the two of them would be the only passengers.

"It will take forty minutes to get to Laibok," Thaleen informed T'Pol, sounding somewhat apologetic. "The airspace around the city is quite busy."

_Hardly surprising_, she thought. _Laibok is Andoria's capitol, as well as its largest city_. "I am in no particular hurry to get there."

"Of that I am certain," Thaleen said, chuckling. "I'd like to take advantage of this time to let you know what to expect once we reach the Courthouse."

"That would be agreeable."

"On our arrival, we'll be separated. I'll file a formal arrest report and handle all the administrative actions required by the Imperial Court, while you're taken through initial processing. Your personal effects will be inventoried and stored, and you'll be transferred to a holding cell. I'll come and check on you after I've completed my administrative tasks."

The shuttle's rear door sealed with a hiss and a gentle thump announced the disengagement of the docking mechanism. The shuttle pulled away from _Amarith_ and began its descent to the icebound world below but Thaleen, intent on his narrative, took no notice.

"Tomorrow, you'll be taken to your indictment interview. This is where you'll be formally notified of the crimes you're accused of committing, and questioned concerning your role in those crimes. Your answers to the questions will be reviewed by a judge, who will decide whether a trial is warranted. Since the reviewing judge is appointed by the government, your case will almost certainly be referred for trial."

"That is my expectation," T'Pol replied. "Even on Vulcan, the legal prescreening process usually results in an indictment."

"Indeed? I didn't know that. In any event, it's important for you to answer truthfully. A transcript of the interview will be admitted as evidence for the trial, and if any of your answers are shown to be lies you could face additional charges or harsher penalties."

"I will be truthful."

"Good. Also, you should know that only direct answers to the interviewer's questions are permitted. The indictment interview is not intended to be a forum for the accused – any explanations, amplifying comments or extraneous remarks will be deleted. Normally, these interviews are conducted by specialists within the Investigative Office, but... but I have decided to exercise my privilege as the senior agent on the case to personally conduct your interview. I can ask questions in a more sympathetic manner, and I can phrase them in such a way that you can answer with information helpful to your case."

T'Pol's expression did not change, but Thaleen had the distinct impression she was surprised by his statement. Her next words only reinforced that impression: "Agent Thaleen, is that wise? If you are seen as helping me, will it not invoke the displeasure of your supervisors?"

"Most likely," he replied, "and I admit to a certain degree of... of apprehension at the thought." He was silent as he struggled to find words to express his feelings – feelings he had only recently begun to acknowledge or understand. "I have no choice, though. Not after what I've seen in the past three weeks. Not after what I've learned on _Amarith_ about honor and sacrifice, from her officers and crew and... and from _you_."

There was a wry smile on his face, but his antennae twitched in an agitated manner. "I suddenly find that Captain Akani's opinion of me matters. That _your_ opinion matters." He laughed without mirth. "The opinion of a Vulcan! Amazing, is it not?"

"Perhaps you should allow someone else to interview me," T'Pol said. "I would not think less of you in that event."

He regarded her thoughtfully as he considered her suggestion. "Unfortunately, _I_ would think less of me, he concluded. "No, I'll conduct the interview."

T'Pol inclined her head, acknowledging his resolve. "It seems you have learned a great deal on _Amarith_ after all. Captain Akani will undoubtedly be pleased."

Thaleen's face broke into a satisfied grin. "Commander T'Pol, you're not trying to curry favor with your interviewing officer, are you?"

"Certainly not," she replied, with exaggerated Vulcan sincerity. "Any attempt to influence someone possessed of such great honor and integrity would clearly be pointless."

It was a good half-minute before Thaleen could contain the laughter her remark had provoked.

#####

The shuttle landed on a pad near the receiving wing of the Courthouse, and Thaleen escorted her inside. They walked up to a desk attended by a uniformed officer, whose eyes widened in surprise as he recognized T'Pol.

Thaleen flashed his credentials, "I am Special Agent Thaleen and this is my prisoner. You should have already received a copy of the custody receipt."

The officer scrolled down a display on his desk. "Ahhh... Yes. Yes. Here it is."

"Very good. Then I release Commander T'Pol into your custody." He signed the receipt with his official code and turned to T'Pol. "I'll see you in a few hours," he said, then walked away at a brisk pace.

T'Pol watched him go before turning back to the officer. He was regarding her uncertainly, and she gathered that this was not how a transfer of custody was normally handled. She clasped her hands behind her back. "What would you like me to do?" she asked, trying to be helpful.

Her question galvanized the officer into action. He spoke into a comm unit on the desk, and two more uniformed officers arrived, both male. They seemed perplexed by her lack of restraints, but since neither of them had brought any along, they had to settled on escorting her between them, each grasping one of her arms. They took her past the front desk, through a locked door, down a long corridor, and into a brightly-lit, windowless room. There they waited, while the two officers spoke softly to each other and cast frequent, curious glances at her and her uniform.

Within five minutes, an older female officer arrived, her white hair streaked with grey. She dismissed the two male officers with a wave of her hand and watched them out the door. Then she turned to T'Pol.

"Remove all your clothing and personal effects, and place them on the table," she directed, while pulling on a pair of disposable gloves. T'Pol complied, then endured a humiliatingly thorough but thankfully brief search of her body.

The officer disposed of the gloves and handed her a folded green bundle. "Put this on."

T'Pol knew immediately what it was from the bright green color. _Prison green_. She unfolded the bundle, which contained a prisoner's poncho, a belt, and a pair of disposable slippers. The poncho was really just a circle of thin plastic with a hole in the middle for the head, and two slits for the arms. She pulled it on and tied the belt around her waist, taking care not to pull it too tight, since it was made of the same flimsy plastic as the poncho. She supposed it was deliberately flimsy to prevent her from using it to strangle anyone, had she been so inclined.

The edge of the poncho came to just above her ankles. _One size fits all_, she reflected. She pulled on the slippers – also too large – and waited patiently.

In the meantime, the female officer photographed T'Pol's personal effects and placed them in a storage box. It did not take long; all T'Pol had brought were the clothes on her back: her uniform, boots, and undergarments.

"Turn and face the wall."

T'Pol did so, and her wrists were cuffed behind her. She was led from the room, down another corridor, through a sophisticated scanning machine (which, in T'Pol's opinion rendered her earlier full-body search rather pointless) and into a long, narrow room lined with holding cells on either side.

Many of the cells were occupied, and the occupants were mostly male. They crowded to the cell windows at the sight of the new prisoner:

"Vulcan! She's a Vulcan!"

"A green-blood!"

"Hey, sweetie-boots, you like what I got, huh?"

"She's Vulcan!"

"In here! Put her in here!

"No, in here. With us!"

There was no mistaking the meaning behind their lewd gestures and profane remarks, but T'Pol ignored them, looking stoically ahead. The officer stopped her in front of a cell of leering Andorian males, and for one terrible instant T'Pol thought she would be placed in the cell with them. She steeled herself for a fight, but it was a cell on the opposite side of the room that snicked open. Much to her relief, it was empty.

T'Pol stepped inside, then waited while her escort uncuffed her wrists and backed out of the cell. The hoots and calls of the other prisoners faded to background noise as the cell door slid shut.

T'Pol took a moment to examine her surroundings: A padded bench, bolted to the floor, ran the length of the back wall. It would easily seat a dozen people. The floor was a neutral gray, but the walls and ceiling were a glossy, unrelieved white. An antiseptic smell hung in the air, stinging her nostrils.

It was also unpleasantly cool.

She sat on the bench and pulled her legs up under the poncho to conserve warmth. So far, things had progressed exactly as outlined by Thaleen, which meant that she would be in this cell for a while. She closed her eyes and her mind reached for her mate. Her Trip.

It was early morning on _Chosin_, and he was in a deep, dreamless slumber. She did not wake him, but let the tendrils of her thoughts play through his mind. Her Vulcan heart swelled with warmth and affection for this person, this _Human_, who had taught her so much. Given her so much. Loved her so much. She permitted herself a tiny, barely audible sigh of contentment.

While she waited, she allowed her mind to wander freely. Her thoughts would normally occupy themselves with ship's business, with the myriad plans and decisions required by the Captain of a warship in the midst of war, but she had relinquished that burden to Trip. Instead, she revisited the events of eleven days ago, when Coalition forces had clashed with the Romulans defending Rho Virginis. She had been in Trip's mind, watching the battle unfold through his eyes, feeling his fear and anxiety as the fate of the Coalition hung in the balance, teetering on a knife's edge. After agonizing hours, the scales had finally tipped to the side of victory, and she had shared in his overwhelming exhilaration and relief. She would never forget the thoughts that had cascaded through his mind in those heady moments after the Romulans began their disorganized withdrawal. They were a torrent of unbridled human emotion, but she had felt them as if they were her own: We did it! By God, we _did_ it... because of T'Pol! _She_ made this possible. _My_ T'Pol!

That feeling of fierce, unalloyed, possessive pride would stay with her till she drew her dying breath. _He's proud of me. My k'diwa is proud of me!_

For as long as T'Pol could remember, she had struggled – unsuccessfully – to gain the approval and acceptance of those around her. Inevitably, her poor emotional control and her unconventional sense of justice had led to censure and disapproval instead. Her own Mother could not say the words T'Pol wanted – no, _needed – _to hear, until the moment she lay dying in T'Pol's arms. _Why, Mother? Why could you never tell me in life?_

Trip had received such emotional support from _his_ family. Indeed, he had received it in such abundance that he could take it for granted. But she had not. She had spent her entire childhood without the emotional comfort she craved.

_No. That is not true._

T'Pol froze at the thought, which had seemingly come from nowhere.

_That is not true. Father supported me. Father was proud of me._

Suddenly, the forgotten memories of her childhood came flooding back to her, and she gasped out loud. No, not forgotten. Suppressed. _Deliberately_ suppressed. Memories that were too painful to bear in the aftermath of her father's untimely death:

##

"Father, you're home!" T'Pol becomes aware she is bouncing with excitement and she calms herself with great effort, casting a guilty look back at the house.

Father kneels before her and extends his two fingers in greeting. "I am indeed home, daughter." He casts his own glance at the house, and continues in a softer voice, "Fear not. No one shall learn of your transgression from me."

Gravely, T'Pol responds to his extended fingers with two of her own. This is how big girls properly greet their parents, she recalls proudly. Her eyes widen in surprise and delight as her father pulls his fingers back at the last instant, and grasps her small hand entirely within his own.

"It is agreeable to see you again, daughter," he says, with all due propriety. But the twinkle in his eye and the gentle pressure on her hand say much, _much_ more.

##

T'Pol comes to the back of the house at her father's summons, and is almost (almost!) successful in suppressing the gasp of astonishment at the sight that greets her. "A sehlat!"

Indeed, a sehlat cub is busy stalking and pouncing on the swaying shadows of the Julmerr bushes. It looks up at T'Pol's approach, tilting its head inquisitively.

"Your Mother and I believe you are now old enough to care for a sehlat. You remember what we talked about? Are you ready to assume the responsibility of caring for another living creature?"

The sehlat is now engaged in a futile attempt to catch its tail. "Yes, Father!" T'Pol says. She hears the excitement in her voice, and continues in a more controlled tone. "Yes. I am prepared."

"Then this sehlat is yours. Do you find her agreeable, daughter?"

"Yes, Father. She is clearly a superior example of her species."

"And what name shall you bestow on this superior specimen of sehlat?"

T'Pol's brow wrinkles in thought. "I will name her Khav-kur (_brown_), since that is the color of her fur."

It takes an effort worthy of Surak for T'Pol's father to keep his eyebrows from climbing in amusement. "She is indeed brown," he observes. "But she is also in a constant state of motion. Why would you not name her Rukaya?" (_bounce_)

"Father. She is but a cub. Once she is grown, she will no longer bounce about."

"Very true. But look. She _is_ also big. As big as you, and she will only get bigger. Why not name her Suk?" (_large_)

"Father! All sehlats are large. Not all are brown. Her name is Khav-kur."

##

"Khav-kur, I should have named you Salan!" (_wind_) T'Pol cries in delight. She sits astride Khav-kur's back, clinging tightly to the fur of her neck while they rush at breakneck speed across the desert landscape. Boulders and bushes flash by in a blur, and she imagines she is a pre-awakening Vulcan Princess, leading the warriors of her clan into desperate battle to avenge the death of her beloved mate. Khav-kur sees a ravine looming ahead, and clears it in a single tremendous leap. T'Pol can't contain an exuberant shriek as they soar through the air.

##

Shadows lengthen and the horizon purples as 40 Eridani sets behind the western mountains. The heat of the day is long past, and a cooling breeze stirs T'Pol's hair. She hugs herself against the chill, but otherwise takes no notice. Her full attention is on her father, sitting beside her and telling her stories of the many worlds he has visited. Khav-kur lounges a few feet away, her ears twitching and nose snuffling at the unseen life of the desert.

Her father is describing the masks worn by Coridani diplomats, and how they completely cover their faces, when she interrupts him. "Then how do they see?"

"The masks have two holes for their eyes," her father replies.

She tilts her head and considers his answer. "Then how do they _eat_?"

"I believe they remove them and eat in private," he replies. "But daughter, if you question my every statement, I will not be able to finish this story."

"Yes, Father," she says dutifully. "I will ask no more questions."

He regards her thoughtfully as she rests her chin on her drawn-up knees. "No daughter. Never stop asking questions. Never. Not for me, and not for anyone else. Do you understand?"

She looks up at him with solemn eyes. "Yes, Father."

He notices the way she hugs herself, "T'Pol, are you cold?"

"Yes, Father."

He reaches over and pulls her to his side, draping an arm around her shoulders. She presses against his reassuring bulk and rests her head on his chest. "Now you will be warmer," he says. "Where was I? Ah, yes. The masks. All Coridani diplomats wear masks –"

"What are... diplomats?"

##

These long-suppressed memories of a beloved pet and a supportive father came at her in a haphazard rush; long-ago events of a forgotten childhood, a childhood that had abruptly ended in the space of two terrible days...

T'Pol was in her eighth year when she came home from school to find her mother waiting with news of her father's death. (Killed by a volcanic eruption at a mining site on an airless moon in the Taugan Sector, she later learned.) For the first time in T'Pol's young life, her mother's emotional control was compromised. She delivered her news to T'Pol in a dull, flat voice, her eyes filled with pain, then she secluded herself in her room for the rest of the day and night. When she finally came out, her control had been restored. Barely.

T'Pol, for her part, was numb. Unfeeling. She would not believe it. _Could_ not believe it. Father would come home, he ALWAYS came home. He HAD to come home.

The very next day, Khav-kur was killed in a fight with a pack of le-matya.

T'Pol blamed herself. In her grief, she had neglected her duty. She had forgotten her responsibilities. She had left Khav-kur out after dark, in the desert, where the wild sehlats hunted and the le-matya packs prowled. Her inattentiveness had killed Khav-kur just as surely as if she had put a phase pistol to her head and pulled the trigger.

It was too much for T'Pol to bear. The numbness gave way and her emotional dam broke. She wept bitterly for Khav-kur and her father, consumed by guilt, sobbing with grief. Her mother, frightened by the intensity of T'Pol's feelings, sent for a priest. Between the efforts of the priest and the ministrations of her mother, T'Pol was finally restored to some semblance of equilibrium.

It was the moment her childhood ended.

After the overwhelming pain of simultaneously losing her father and her sehlat, she determined she would fully embrace the mental control and discipline of Vulcan adulthood. From that moment on she would, to the best of her abilities, adopt a stern and serious approach to life, an approach that would serve her well as she rose through the ranks of Vulcan society. Memories of special times with her father and exhilarating desert rides with Khav-kur were ruthlessly suppressed, along with the pain of their loss.

Until now.

_But why now?_ she thought. _After all these decades, why do I remember them now?_

No sooner had she asked the question than the answer emerged fully-formed in her consciousness: _Because only now can you handle these memories. Before, they would have consumed you. Only now do you have the ability to safely access them._ Indeed, the pain and guilt had receded to a distant ache, a result of her adult perspective and decades of time. But the memories! – they were as clear and warm and full of delight as the day she had lived them.

The reason for that was also clear. _Trip_. She had learned this from Trip. _He has already gifted me with so much, so very much. Now he has given me back my childhood. My Khav-kur. My Father!_

Never could she have imagined such a precious gift. With awe and wonder, she sat on the bench in her cold, stark cell, and she _remembered_.

#####

Special Agent Thaleen was crossing the public square in front of the Courthouse when he first heard the commotion. He was heading for the receiving wing to check on his prisoner after filing the required reports at the Imperial Investigative Office, but curiosity got the better of him. He altered course for the source of the commotion: the massive, ornate doors opening into the main lobby of the Courthouse. He paused outside just long enough to lightly touch the pocket containing his disruptor, assuring himself of its presence (just in case it might be needed). Then he strode into the lobby.

The source of the commotion was an Imperial Guard officer – a Commander, if Thaleen was reading the rank correctly. His hands were clenched into fists, and his antennae were flattened back against his skull. He leaned forward, his face mere inches from the uniformed officer at the information desk. "No. I am NOT a member of her clan," he shouted in exasperation. "How could I be? She's VULCAN, you dolt. A VULCAN Starfleet officer. How many of those could there possibly be in your cells here?"

The desk officer's antennae were similarly flattened to his head, and from the belligerent expression on his face he was not about to give in. "I don't know and I don't care," he shouted back. "You don't visit ANYONE here unless you're clan, you're a legal advocate, or you've got authorization from a judge!"

Thaleen walked up to the desk and inserted himself into the confrontation, calmly expanding on the Desk Officer's list: "Or you're in her military chain of command; or you're from the Vulcan embassy, since she's a Vulcan citizen; or you're from the Earth embassy, since she has a commission in United Earth's military. Do you fall into any of those categories?"

The Guard Commander gave Thaleen a withering look. "No!" he snapped, frustration evident on his face.

"In that case, Sir, come with me. I will take you to her." Thaleen turned and walked away, while the Imperial Guard officer stared after him in shocked disbelief.

The shock wore off, and he hurried to catch up. "You're taking me to her? To Commander T'Pol?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yes. I presume that's who you want to see. As you said, how many Vulcan Starfleet officers could there possibly be here?"

"But... but I am not in any of the categories you mentioned."

"Yes. Which means you're probably just a friend." Thaleen looked directly at him while they walked. "I believe she could use a friend right now."

#####

Agent Thaleen unlocked Commander T'Pol's cell, and her eyes flicked open at the sound. She looked up at him as he entered, and there was an aura of tranquility about her that seemed completely out of place, given the circumstances.

"Did I disturb your meditation?" he asked.

"No. I was just thinking of my Father."

Thaleen did not quite know how to respond to that, but before he could formulate an appropriate reply he noticed the way she was huddled within her poncho. "I'm sorry, Commander," he said, appalled by his oversight. "I completely forgot to have the temperature in your cell adjusted. I'll make sure it's warmer when you return here."

"Return? I am leaving?"

"Yes," Thaleen said, and then he grinned. "You have a visitor." He led her from the cell block – both of them ignoring the vulgarities that streamed from the other cells – and down a short corridor to a nearby visitation room. He opened the door and followed her in. T'Pol was not surprised to see an impatient Commander Shran waiting for her.

Thaleen indicated a comm panel on the wall. "Ask for me when you're done," he said, "and I'll escort you back out."

"How much time do we have?" Shran asked.

"As much as you need," Thaleen replied. He withdrew from the room and closed the door behind him.

Shran looked back at T'Pol, greeting her with a dry smile. "I must say, Commander, I prefer you in Starfleet blue."

She glanced down at her baggy, misshapen poncho. "I quite agree. How are you, Commander Shran? I heard about your ship, and your injuries. I am sorry."

"The wounds are healing," he said, "but losing a ship? You never get over that. I know. I've lost _two_."

"I realize it is not the same," T'Pol said, "but I believe I can appreciate something of what you are going through."

"Yes," Shran agreed. "Yes, I believe you can. In a sense, you've also lost your ship."

He moved toward one of the several chairs in the room and motioned for T'Pol to join him. "I want to help," he said, "but I'm not sure what I can do. Is there anything you need? Anyone I can contact? Should I notify someone at the Embassies? Vulcan or Human? Should I arrange for legal counsel? My clan has several good advocates..."

"Both embassies have already been informed, and are already making arrangements for my legal defense. I am meeting with an embassy delegation tomorrow."

Shran scowled in frustration. "There must be something I can do."

"There is," she said. "I would enjoy additional visits from you, at least until such a time as you must return to the war."

"_That_ I can do." he said.

#####

**Imperial Chancellery, Laibok, Andoria, 4 April 2159**

Chancellor Shalin pushed away from his desk and began pacing about his office, so great was his agitation. "What's keeping Dellev?" he muttered to himself. "It's not like him to be late."

Moments later the door to his office opened and an aging Andorian entered, wearing formal attire and an apologetic look.

"Forgive me, Chancellor," the old Andorian said, "my last meeting ran a little long." He made his way to a chair by the Chancellor's desk and pulled several PADDs from a bag he carried.

"No matter, you're here now," Shalin said, resuming his pacing. "Did you see it, Dellev? Did you see it? That Vulcan whore's Indictment Interview?"

"I saw it."

"I want him fired, Dellev. Do you hear me? Whoever conducted that interview, find him and fire him and make sure he never works anywhere else in this city. And then find whoever hired _him_, and fire them too!"

Dellev chuckled, "That might be problematic, Shalin. The interviewer is an agent for the Imperial Investigative Office. He reports to Chief Investigator Laykala, who I believe is the daughter of one of the elders in _your_ clan."

Shalin stopped pacing as he considered the political ramifications. "Very well, don't fire her. Just the agent."

Dellev motioned toward the Chancellor's desk. "Sit, Shalin. I am no longer young. Your pacing wears on me."

Shalin stopped pacing and returned to his desk. "Sorry, old friend. But... but what could he have been thinking? If, as you say, he is an investigative agent, how could he _not_ know the proper way to conduct an interview? How could he ask such open-ended and leading questions? How could he be so... so _incompetent_?"

"Not incompetent, Shalin. He clearly believes her innocent. I have warned you that many will take her side, especially within the Imperial Guard." He raised a hand, forestalling Shalin's indignant response. "Hear me out. I am your oldest advisor; I've been with you since your first run for Parliament, and I believe I've advised you well. Now I'm advising you to drop this. Pardon the Vulcan and let her go."

"I... I cannot." Shalin said. "She murdered my son. Murdered him! Not _your_ son. _My_ son. She could have saved him. She had _orders_ to save him, yet she chose to do nothing. _She chose to let him die_."

Shalin buried his face in his hands, and his antennae quivered with rage. "I want her _dead_, Dellev. I want her tried, convicted, and sentenced to death."

"No."

Shalin lifted his head from his hands, staring at his old advisor.

"If you try her for a capital offense, you risk losing everything," Dellev explained. "The support of our allies, the Parliament, the Imperial Guard, even the people. There is a better way."

"I'm listening."

"Try her in court, yes. Not for a death sentence, but a prison term. Those who support you will applaud your compassion, and those who oppose you will have to admit you seek justice, not vengeance."

"But Dellev, she murdered my _son_! To know that Varras is dead while she continues to live, even if it's in a prison? That would be intolerable!"

"She's Vulcan, Shalin. Do you know what happens to Vulcans in Andorian prisons?"

"No."

"They die. Not right away, but certainly within ten years."

Shalin looked doubtful. "Are Vulcans truly that... that fragile?"

"Not fragile, just ill-equipped to deal with Andorian justice. I've checked. No Vulcan has survived longer than ten years in an Imperial prison. Not one. Most die within four years."

Shalin looked hopeful, then his face fell again. "Yes, but she may not make it to prison. She may not be convicted. Not after that... that cursed interview! It makes her look like a saint, not the murdering whore she is! And if Admiral Gardner truly supports her insubordination, as she claims he does... she could be acquitted. What then, Dellev?"

Shalin's face contorted into a mask of rage, and he slammed his fist down on the desk with such force that the window rattled. "Tell me, Dellev. _What do we do then_?"

Dellev took one of the PADDS up from the desk and idly toyed with it, smiling slyly. "She _will_ be convicted," he said, in a tone of complete certainty.

Shalin took note of the tone, and stared at him. Unballing his fists, he reached for the PADD. "How can you be so sure? What's in the PADD?"

"The results of my last meeting; the one that caused me to be late. That PADD contains the findings of one of our investigators looking into the Vulcan's background."

Shalin began scrolling through the contents of the PADD. "These appear to be medical records," he said.

"Yes. Commander T'Pol's medical records," Dellev confirmed.

Shalin glanced up from the PADD. "Starfleet would never release her medical records. I'm afraid you've been scammed, old friend."

"They did not come from Starfleet," Dellev said.

"Then who? The Vulcans?"

"No. T'Pol's physician at the time was a Denobulan named Phlox. He is not a member of Starfleet, but he serves on Starfleet vessels as part of the Interspecies Medical Exchange."

"So?" Shalin prompted, anxious to get to the point.

"So Phlox keeps a copy of all his treatment records on a private system. But he is _much_ better at medicine then he is at data security. Our investigator was able to access his files. You might be interested to know that they contain information that never made it into official Starfleet records."

"Information that will lead to her conviction?"

"I'll let you decide," Dellev said. "The records show that Commander T'Pol was regularly injecting herself with a mind-altering compound called Trellium-D while serving as First Officer on _Enterprise_ during their mission in the Delphic Expanse."

A slow smile spread across Shalin's face. "I believe that will do it."

**CONTINUED IN CHAPTER EIGHT**


	8. Chapter 8

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol faces charges in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**Note:** It should be apparent by now that the Andorians populating my universe consist of two sexes: male and female. This, despite the fact that many Star Trek fan fictions embrace the concept of _four_ distinct Andorian genders. I believe this convoluted biology originates from a Star Trek DS9 series published by Pocket Books (and thus is not actually canon). I mention this to avoid being swamped by comments from well-meaning reviewers pointing out my ignorance. Since Andorian reproduction plays no real role in my story's plot, feel free to imagine multiple sexes, if you wish. I opted for simplicity.

**Note:** A tip of the hat to **thot**, who deserves credit for the idea that the extradition treaty would not apply because T'Pol surrendered voluntarily.

**EIGHT**

_**Enterprise**_**, Rho Virginis, 3 April 2159**

Trip paused just outside the flag bridge on _Enterprise_ and took a moment to consider the sign above the door. _Second Fleet Command Center_, it read.

_Last time I was here this was the astrophysics lab_, he thought. Unbidden, a wave of nostalgia swept over him, and he recalled the many hours he'd spent there with T'Pol engaged in her arcane scientific research. Sometimes he helped, but mostly he was just _there_. There, to share in her fascination as the mysteries of the universe unfolded before the focused power of her nimble mind. There, to share in her delight when a meticulously calculated theory was confirmed by direct observation.

Mostly he recalled how happy they'd been.

T'Pol felt his nostalgia across their bond and — in her subdued Vulcan fashion — she shared it with him. *We will have such times again, my love.*

*Will we, T'Pol? Will we?* Trip's nostalgia faded, leaving in its place a more familiar but much less pleasant bitterness. *When have we ever caught a break? When, T'Pol? You're in a holding cell on Andoria facing murder charges and I'm halfway to Romulus. When has life ever done anything but kick us to the curb, then stomp all over us?*

He felt a tentative stillness in his mind, a barely perceptible hesitation, before T'Pol responded. *Life brought you to me. That is something, is it not?*

He grudgingly conceded her point. *It's _everything_. Even so, I damn near screwed THAT up too.*

*I am not entirely blameless in that regard,* T'Pol reminded him, her manner gently chiding.

Trip couldn't help it; he chuckled softly at the memory of all the misunderstandings and miscalculations that had plagued their early relationship. Try as he might, he was unable to maintain his resentment in the face of her serene acceptance of life's harsh realities. *You're right, of course. I'm just feeling a little sorry for myself.*

*I understand, Trip. Now if I am not mistaken, Admiral Chu is waiting for you on the flag bridge.*

*Yes ma'am.* With a parting glance at the sign, he thumbed the door open and stepped inside, taking a moment to orient himself.

The room was lined on all four sides with data consoles manned by officers and crewmen. Some looked up at his entrance, but most maintained a single-minded focus on their work. The only sounds were the soft beeps of data interfaces and the background murmur of hushed conversations.

The center of the room was dominated by a large tactical display, around which Admiral Chu huddled with a group of senior officers.

Seeing no obvious gatekeepers controlling access to the Admiral, Trip approached the group. "You asked to see me, Admiral?"

Chu looked up. "Captain Tucker, yes. Thank you for coming. I have a job for _Chosin_..."

#####

Afterwards, Trip made his way to the _Enterprise_ ready room, where Captain Archer waved him inside. He closed the file he was working on and swiveled his chair around, giving Trip his undivided attention. "Well?"

"_Chosin_ has a mission," Trip replied. "Could be a cake-walk, or it could be a doozie." He plopped into a chair and rubbed at his eyes.

"You look beat," Archer said. "Do you have time for some coffee?" At Trip's nod, he pressed a button on the comm panel and requested a thermos from the galley, then turned back to Trip. "So, am I cleared to hear the details?"

"Yeah. The rommie ships we damaged in the fighting at Rho Virg are slowing down the rommie fleet's withdrawal. They can't go any faster than warp two without leaving a trail of stragglers."

Archer nodded. "We've already picked off the stragglers that couldn't maintain at least warp two."

"Right. Anyway, most of our ships expended all their torpedoes during the battle. Magazines are bone-dry, which is why Chu elected not to go after the rommies. I hear he took some heat from the staff-weenies at Joint HQ for failing to launch an aggressive pursuit, but that's just nuts. Without torpedoes it would have been a slug-fest, pitting their strength against our weakness. Not a good idea."

"Unless you're plopped in a nice, soft chair behind a desk in San Francisco," Archer observed caustically. "'What's your mission, then?"

"The rommies seem to have decided we're not coming after them, so the bulk of their fleet just picked up the pace. A couple of squadrons of cruisers were left behind with the damaged ships, but the rest of the rommie fleet is heading for Terix at warp four."

Archer frowned, "Is that the mission? Going after their damaged ships? It's still a potent force, even without the escorting cruisers. They may be damaged, but they've still got teeth."

"No, that's not it. Admiral Chu has every intention of going after them, but not until he has rearmed a large enough strike force with torpedoes. The resupply convoy only arrived a few days ago. We haven't even finished rearming the ships in the picket screen, and they have priority."

"So the mission is..?" Archer prompted.

"We'll shadow the rommie's main force and, um, _discourage_ any attempts to reinforce their damaged ships when they see our strike force heading that way. They may not even try. If we're lucky, they'll just throw their damaged comrades to the wolves."

"Maybe," Archer said, "but I'm not holding my breath. I'm also guessing Chu's not sending you out alone?"

"No. Task Force 2.1 rides again — the original six ships, augmented by eight Vulcan fast attack cruisers."

"And will you be Task Force Commander again?"

Trip scowled. "Yes."

Archer raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Impressive. Command of six ships last week. Fourteen ships this week. At the rate you're going, you'll have your own fleet by the end of the year."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I don't even want to command ONE ship. I'm an engineer, Jon. It's all I want to be. All I _ever_ wanted to be."

Archer's smile faded and he let out a heavy sigh. "This war has us all doing things we never wanted."

A crewman arrived bearing a carafe of coffee and two mugs, which he deposited on the table between the two men. Archer nodded his thanks, then filled a mug and slid it toward Trip.

"How is T'Pol?" he asked, pouring coffee into his own mug.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Trip replied, his not-so-subtle way of letting Jon know that T'Pol was present via the bond.

"Someday I might get used this bond thing you two have." Archer said, shaking his head.

Trip snorted. "Someday, _I_ might get used to it."

"I would certainly hope so," Archer chuckled. "So, T'Pol, how are you?"

"She says—"

Archer stopped him with an upheld hand, "Let me guess. She's fine."

Trip grinned. "Now she says if you already knew then why did you ask? And she's giving you that _look — _you know the one I mean."

Archer grinned back, "Yeah, I know exactly which look you mean. But the reason I asked is because I want to know how you _really_ are. Both of you."

Trip's expression grew somber. "We're okay. Really. I have my moments," he admitted. "I'm kind of having one now, in case you haven't noticed. But T'Pol's there for me to lean on."

His gaze turned inward for a moment before speaking again, "She says she leans on me, too. Although..." and here Trip's voice dropped into a conspiratorial tone, "just between you and me, I think I need most of the propping up."

"Somehow I'm not surprised," Archer said, taking a sip from his mug. "And you, T'Pol? What's your status?"

"She's still in a holding cell at the Imperial Courthouse in Laibok,. She'll be meeting with her legal team in a few hours. In the meantime, she has plenty of time to meditate. But mostly, she hangs out with me. We play chess, listen to music, read books, watch old movies. That sort of thing."

"And when, amidst all that, do you find time to run your ship, _Captain_ Tucker?" Archer teased. But there was a part of him — buried deep, to be sure — that couldn't help but be a little jealous of what Trip shared with T'Pol. There were times (more and more, of late) when Archer wondered if putting his career ahead of his personal life had been the correct choice. The older he got, the less certain he was he'd been right.

"Hell, Jon. Verley, Graham, and Saracco run _Chosin_. All I have to do is walk around and look important."

Archer started laughing, and found he couldn't stop. It felt damned good.

#####

**United Earth Embassy Canteen, Laibok, Andoria, 3 April 2159**

Shran took a cautious sip of the orange liquid and grimaced. It was very... _tart_. He pushed the glass aside and looked at the Human who awaited his verdict.

"No," Shran said. "No, I cannot drink that. What else would you recommend?"

The Human waiter smiled imperceptibly. "Perhaps if you tried another sip..?"

"No, I—" Shran's protest died on his lips as he realized the initial tartness was gone, replaced by a flavor both exotic and delightfully sweet.

_Interesting_, he thought. He reached for the glass again, taking another cautious sip. Yes, a hint of the tartness was there, but mostly he tasted that _wonderful_ sweetness.

"On second thought," Shran said, "I believe this will do. What is it called?"

The waiter's smile broadened. "Orange juice, sir."

Shran squinted at the glass of orange liquid in his hand. "Orange juice. Of course; how imaginative." The waiter retreated, still smiling, and Shran turned his attention back to the Canteen door.

His brother was late.

Not that Shran was surprised by this. Shartal was a civilian after all — a musician — and had never been subject to the Imperial Guard's unyielding discipline. Which, despite their father's continuing disappointment, was certainly for the best. His brother would not have lasted long in the Guard, possessing neither the desire nor temperament for such a life.

Shran took another long sip of the delightful liquid while he contemplated the past. He had once shared his father's opinion of his younger brother, considering him erratic, irresponsible, and weak. That opinion had changed when he saw just how passionate Shartal could be in the pursuit of his art. Despite their differences, Shran had to respect such single-minded determination and devotion to one's craft.

It wasn't until Shran was halfway through the glass of orange juice that Shartal finally appeared in the Canteen's doorway. His face lit into a pleased grin when he saw Shran.

"There you are, Brother!" he said, approaching the table. "We are all wondering what is so important that it keeps you away from home on your first visit to Andoria since the war's beginning. Father is _highly_ distressed."

Shran grinned and gestured for his brother to join him. "_Highly_ distressed? That means everything is completely normal. It's good to see you, Shartal. How is your wife?"

"Varsha is as beautiful as ever," Shartal replied. "But you, Shran? How are you? We heard of your wounds."

"As you can see, my wounds are healing."

"That's good. You had us all worried. Well, maybe not Father. _He's_ just jealous. Jealous that you're off fighting and he's not. _He_ spends his days hoping Andoria is invaded and the Imperial Guard must mobilize the Retired Reserve. I think Father will be the only one not happy when this war is finally over." Shartal giggled and Shran snorted his amusement. Their father had never avoided a fight in his life, and his retirement from the Guard had been predictably traumatic. Both for him, and by extension, everyone around him.

Shartal's smile faded and he cast a searching look at Shran, "Shran, when _will_ this war be over?"

"Impossible to say," Shran said. He regarded his brother through narrowed eyes. "Do you even know who we're fighting?"

"Of course I do! The war is all anyone talks about. We're fighting the uh, Romulans... Right?"

"Right," Shran agreed, although he would not have been terribly surprised if his brother hadn't known. Shartal could be blissfully ignorant about events outside the circle of his music.

"You still haven't told me why you haven't come home," Shartal asked in a plaintive voice. "Or why you're here at the Human embassy."

"I can't leave Laibok right now. I'm helping a comrade. A friend. Commander T'Pol."

"A very odd name," Shartal said.

"Not for a Vulcan," Shran replied, and Shartal's eyes widened in astonishment.

"A Vulcan? But... you said _friend_. Does Father know?"

Shran laughed. "Have I been disowned? Stripped of my name? Banished from the homestead? If not, then it's safe to say he _doesn't_ know."

Shartal giggled nervously, but was saved from having to comment when Shran next spoke. "Ah, the meeting must be over. There's the person I'm waiting for…"

He followed Shran's eyes to the Canteen door, where an older Andorian male stood looking around. Shartal immediately recognized him. "Old Thev? The Clan legal advocate? Are you in trouble with the law, Shran?"

"Not me," Shran answered. "He's here to help Commander T'Pol." Shran lifted an arm to get Thev's attention, and the advocate joined them at their table.

They exchanged cursory greetings, then got down to business. "I have just come from a meeting of Commander T'Pol's legal team," Thev said. "You were correct to have me attend. I'm afraid they were laboring under a severe misconception."

Shran's antennae twitched. "There is no one I trust more regarding such matters than you, Thev. I'm glad you could rearrange your schedule on such short notice."

Thev snorted. "I didn't rearrange it so much as I completely ignored it. You _were_ highly insistent, as I recall. I'm taking you at your word that this Vulcan is worth my time and trouble."

"She is," Shran confirmed. "Now, what is this misconception you spoke of?"

"Her legal team was proceeding on the assumption that the terms of the Human extradition treaty would apply at her trial. This is not the case, of course, since she was not actually extradited. Rather, she surrendered herself. The Government will argue that this makes her subject to the full range of judicial punishments available to the court, up to and including death."

A shocked silence descended on the table. "What can be done?" Shran asked, once he had absorbed Thev's blunt assessment.

Thev's reply was equally blunt: "Nothing."

Shran's jaw clenched in frustration and anger. He could not accept that. He _would_ not accept that.

#####

**Imperial Courthouse, Laibok, Andoria, 5 April 2159**

T'Pol had been on Andoria a little less than three days but had already settled into something of a routine. Most of her time was consumed by meetings with her legal team, who seemed to require endlessly-repeated statements regarding her actions in the Teneebian sector. She had a few other official visitors, mostly from the Earth and Vulcan embassies. And then there was Shran. He'd made a point of visiting at least twice a day since her arrival, just to see how she was doing, and to talk.

She had come to look forward to his visits as a welcome break in the monotony, but this time he was not alone in the small visitation room. He greeted her with a smile, which seemed a little strained to her. The other Andorian stood stiffly and regarded her with an indifferent expression.

Shran turned to him. "Eldest, permit me to introduce Commander T'Pol, most recently Captain of the Starfleet frigate _Chosin_." Shran's uncharacteristically deferential attitude was not lost on T'Pol. _This person is clearly someone of high standing_, she realized. Shran seemed at once both hopeful and nervous in his presence.

Shran continued his introduction. "Under her command, _Chosin_ was the most successful warship in—"

"I am familiar with her military record," the elderly Andorian interrupted, "at least the portion which was made public. I am willing to concede its impressiveness. But that is hardly the issue here, is it Shran?"

"No, Eldest." Shran replied, chastened.

The old Andorian continued to look her over, his eyes lingering on her ill-fitting green poncho and over-sized slippers. T'Pol returned his gaze calmly, arms clasped behind her back. She had no idea what was going on, but it was obviously something of great importance to Shran. She was confident he would tell her what she needed to know in due time.

After several moments the old Andorian turned his attention back to Shran. "Does she know why I'm here?" he asked.

"No, Eldest. I haven't had a chance to discuss that with her."

His laugh was so soft as to be barely audible. "Then I suppose you should tell her. But first let us sit." He walked to the nearest chair, his movements slow and deliberate lest his body's great age betray him.

Shran gave T'Pol an apologetic look, and motioned toward two chairs facing the old Andorian. She arched an eyebrow, but took one of the indicated seats while Shran took the other.

"Commander T'Pol, this is Thralas, Eldest of the Table of Elders for Clan Gharal. The Table of Elders is the highest authority and final arbiter of all matters related to the Clan."

"I presume that you are of this clan... Clan Gharal?" she asked.

"Yes. Gharal blood runs through my veins, Gharal tradition lights my path, and Gharal honor guides my hand.

T'Pol inclined her head. "You honor me, Eldest."

"That remains to be seen, Commander," Thralas replied. His tone was not quite ominous, nor was it entirely friendly.

"Eldest Thralas is here at my request, Commander. I have petitioned the Table of Elders to... to adopt you into the Clan."

It took a great effort for T'Pol to conceal her astonishment.

"He has asked to meet with you," Shran continued. "To speak with you. It is... it is no small matter to be adopted into an Andorian Clan. He needs to know... needs to be sure that you won't... that you are..."

"That I am worthy," T'Pol said, completing Shran's thought.

"Yes," Shran agreed. "My personal assurances carry only so much weight."

Thralas snorted. "Spare me the false modesty, Shran," he interjected. "Your assurances carry great weight. They were sufficient to bring me here — the rest is in _her_ hands."

"I apologize, Eldest." Shran said. "Commander T'Pol, Eldest Thralas must assess you... must assess your, uh, suitability... your... your..."

T'Pol could not recall seeing Shran quite this flustered before. She quieted him with a light touch on his arm. "I understand the need to protect your Clan. I do _not_ understand your petition to adopt me. Perhaps if you explained that first..?"

Shran was obviously uncomfortable, but he made an effort to compose himself. "Commander, did you know that you could be facing capital charges?"

"My legal team advised me of that possibility yesterday. It appears that I may not be entitled to the protections of Earth's extradition treaty due to the manner in which I was detained."

"Because you voluntarily turned yourself in, the extradition papers were never served. If convicted, Chancellor Shalin can have you put to death. And if he _can_, he _will_."

"An admitted miscalculation on my part," T'Pol observed. "However, my legal team is optimistic that I will not be convicted."

"Maybe so, but that is a risk I am unwilling to take. If you were adopted into Clan Gharal, you would have all the rights, privileges, and protections of Andorian citizenship. Including the right of Ushaan."

T'Pol almost sighed. _Ushaan. Now I understand_.

Ushaan was the ancient code that governed most aspects of conflict resolution and personal honor in Andorian culture. It was an old code, _centuries_ old, containing thousands of complex articles and provisions, yet it still superceded the modern judicial system in many respects.

T'Pol had a superficial familiarity with the code from a prior incident on _Enterprise_. Shran had invoked Ushaan in a duel with a Tellarite to avenge the death of his Lieutenant, Talas. Captain Archer had narrowly averted a diplomatic disaster by taking advantage of the Ushaan's many convoluted exceptions to substitute himself for the Tellarite in the ensuing combat.

"Is it your intention that I should invoke Ushaan and challenge Chancellor Shalin to a duel?" T'Pol asked.

Shran grinned savagely. "Yes! Shalin is a politician. He has never served in the Guard. He has probably not touched a ushaan-tor — or any other weapon — since childhood. You could kill him easily."

"And if he finds a substitute? A champion? Someone I might not so easily defeat?"

"Then his dishonor would be complete. He would be admitting to all of Andoria that he loves his miserable life more than his own good name, the memory of his son, or the honor of his Clan. He would be reviled by all as a craven coward. It will not happen."

"Shran, I will not fight Shalin."

"T'Pol, he wants you _dead_. You have every right to defend yourself!"

"I know what it is like to lose a child. I will not kill Shalin. I _cannot_."

Shran was stricken as his carefully formulated plan began to unravel in the face of T'Pol's moral objections. "T'Pol..." he said, "Shalin cares nothing for you. He doesn't deserve your compassion."

"Still, I will not be responsible for his death. I will not take his life."

Shran was silent as he searched for an argument to refute a concept he could barely comprehend.

Thralas had also been following the exchange with great interest. "Do you object to the concept of adoption in general, or just to Shran's reason for proposing it?" he asked T'Pol.

"I object only to the reason for the adoption," T'Pol answered.

"Then I suggest there are benefits to adoption — beyond the right of Ushaan — that might be helpful in your legal battles. If you are open to it, I am still willing to consider Shran's petition."

T'Pol glanced at Shran, who wore a hopeful expression, then back at Thralas. "I am," she stated.

"You are willing, then, or so you say. Let us see if you are worthy. Commander, may I call you T'Pol?"

"You may."

"T'Pol, if Clan Gharal adopts you then everything you do, everything you say, everything you _are_, reflects back on the Clan. Whatever honor accrues to you also accrues to the Clan. But if you dishonor yourself, you also dishonor the Clan. So before I can decide, there is one question I must consider: How will your adoption affect the honor of the Clan? It is a question easily asked, yet not so easily answered."

T'Pol was silent, letting Thralas set the tone and direction of the discussion.

"There are several positive qualities in your favor," he continued. "You speak flawless Andorian. You are a formidable warrior and an accomplished leader — the highly-decorated captain of a warship credited with the destruction of many of Andoria's enemies."

"There are also some negative qualities that I must consider. You sit here wearing prison green," he said, reaching out with a gnarled hand to grasp the material of her poncho. He tugged repeatedly to emphasize his point. "It is a color that bodes ill for the honor of the Clan."

"It is her honor that has brought her to this!" Shran interjected. "I've explained this to you, Eldest."

"Yes. But who will explain it to the other Clans?"

Shran's lips compressed in displeasure, and he looked away.

"There is also the fact that you are Vulcan. That alone would disqualify you in the minds of many."

"There is no dishonor in being Vulcan," Shran muttered.

"Many would disagree with you," Thralas said. Then he looked at T'Pol. "You have been very quiet. Have you nothing to say?"

"Only that Shran is correct. There is no dishonor in being Vulcan. But neither is there _honor _in being Vulcan. Honor derives from our actions, not our being. There are honorable and dishonorable Vulcans, just as there are honorable and dishonorable Andorians."

T'Pol took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from the poncho covering her lap, "I must be honest with you, Eldest. I cannot promise I will never bring dishonor to your Clan. As a Starfleet officer, I am bound by my oath to United Earth. That is where my primary allegiance lies. If I have to choose between my duty to the Clan and my duty to Starfleet, I must choose Starfleet."

"I see," Thralas said.

"Also, I cannot promise that I will always adhere to the codes and traditions of the Clan. Even the ones I am aware of."

Shran supressed a groan at the way T'Pol seemed intent on undermining her chances.

"You are unwilling to learn and follow our ways?" Thralas asked.

"No, Eldest. But I have learned that no way can be correct all of the time. I violated my oath to Starfleet when I came here. I am sworn to obey the orders of my superiors, yet I placed myself into Andorian custody despite explicit orders to the contrary from a senior officer."

"What led you to disobey?"

"One portion of my oath conflicted with another. My obligation to defend Earth was contradicted by my obligation to follow orders. I had to decide which would take precedence."

"You believe you are qualified to make such judgments?"

"Yes. In matters involving personal honor, we must all make our own judgments. Who else is more qualified? Who else could be trusted for such?"

"And was your judgment correct?"

T'Pol looked Thralas directly in the eye. "Coalition forces now hold Rho Virginis. This could not have happened without the full participation of the Imperial Guard. If we had not destroyed the Romulan supply facilities at Rho Virginis, we would be unable to stop them from taking Earth, and if Earth falls, the Coalition falls. Romulus would be free to conquer each nation individually. First the Tellarites. Then the Vulcans. Finally the Andorians. That is what is at stake here, Eldest. That is why I did what I did."

"Eldest, there can be no doubt that her judgment was correct. She has clearly saved the Coalition from military disaster." Shran's desire to make sure Thralas understood was almost palpable.

"Shran, you lose sight of the issue. After speaking with T'Pol, it is clear to me that her judgment is sound and her honor is strong. But my charge is to protect the Clan and act in its best interests. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that adopting T'Pol would _not_ diminish the standing and reputation of our Clan? That the resulting controversy would _not_ be detrimental to our business relations or our political interests?"

"Eldest," Shran pleaded, "she has saved all of Andoria from Shalin's ill-conceived policies; from — from military defeat, or worse! You must reconsider—"

"Answer my question, Shran. Will T'Pol's adoption diminish the standing and reputation of our Clan? Yes or no."

"Yes," Shran replied through clenched teeth.

"But you would have me do so anyway?"

"Yes!"

"And so I shall," Thralas said. "I intend to strongly recommend that the Table of Elders approve your petition."

Shran's mouth gaped open, but no sound came out.

Thralas smiled, pleased by the effect of his words. "There is more to honor than blind adherence to a code, Shran. T'Pol already knows this, and you are clearly learning. It is a lesson some Andorians never master, no matter how long they live. I will disregard my obligation to the Clan for the same reason T'Pol disregarded her orders, because it is right and honorable. Now please, close your mouth."

Shran's mouth snapped shut. "Thank you, Eldest."

Thralas turned his attention back to T'Pol. "Protocol requires that I ask you one more question, although I suspect I know what your answer will be. Are you prepared to regard Shran as blood of your blood, as a brother in every respect, if this adoption is consummated?"

"No," T'Pol said.

Thralas blinked. "No?"

"No. Shran has staked his honor and risked his reputation on my behalf, and he has done so without any thought of gain or benefit for himself. No. I do not need a legal adoption to regard Shran as my brother. He has proven himself such through his actions. Regardless what happens here, regardless what the Elders' may decide, Shran _is_ my brother in every way that matters."

Thralas slowly stood. "Then we are done here. Tomorrow, I will convene the Table to formally consider your petition. There will be some resistance, of course, but I will deal with that. You, Shran, will not speak out of turn. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Eldest."

"Very well. I am leaving now. Will you come with me, or stay to talk with your sister?"

"I will let T'Pol decide," Shran said, grinning. "Would you like some company… sister?"

"That would be agreeable… brother."

#####

_**Enterprise**_**, Rho Virginis, 5 April 2159**

"Admiral Chu will see you now."

Commander Wexler, CO of the Starfleet frigate _Verdun_, squared his shoulders and followed the young Petty Officer down the passageway to Chu's private office. He entered to find the Admiral seated behind his desk — a large, Admiral-sized desk, Wexler noted — talking to Captain Walker, Second Fleet's Chief of Staff.

Admiral Chu tossed the PADD he was holding onto an untidy stack, which teetered precariously but did not fall, then turned his attention to Wexler. He leaned forward, somehow finding room on the cluttered desktop to rest his forearms, and gave Wexler an expectant look. "Have a seat, Commander," he said. "Tell me what's on your mind."

"Good morning Admiral Chu, Captain Walker," Wexler said, greeting them both. "Thank you for seeing me." There were two chairs in the room, both facing Admiral Chu's desk. Captain Walker occupied one; Wexler took the other.

"How much time do I have, Harold?" Chu asked, glancing at Walker.

"Ten minutes, Admiral. Then you're meeting with the J4."

"Again? Didn't she just brief me a couple of hours ago?"

"Right, but that was the daily logistics update," Walker replied. "This meeting concerns the new Tellarite convoy schedules and all the problems they're causing."

Chu heaved a theatrical sigh and gave Wexler an apologetic look. "It's true what they say: Amateurs study tactics. Professionals study logistics. Sorry Commander, I can only give you ten minutes. Try to be brief."

"Yes sir." Wexler suppressed a surge of annoyance and got right to the point. "I have some, uh, _reservations_ about Task Force 2.1." His eyes flicked from Chu to Walker, then back to Chu as he tried to judge their reaction. Their faces revealed nothing but polite interest.

"Go on," Chu prompted.

Wexler charged ahead. "I don't believe Commander Tucker is the right person to command the task force. He's reckless and lacks experience."

"Under his command TF 2.1 engaged and destroyed nine rommie warbirds," Chu observed, "all without losing a single ship. I have a hard time ignoring results like that."

Wexler barely contained a derisive snort. "Tucker was lucky. If it hadn't been for the antimatter shortage, TF 2.1 would have been destroyed. Without the extra shielding on those new fission warheads, we would have been overwhelmed by the Romulans. Tucker's plan did not account for that; he admits as much in his after-action report. The capabilities of the new warheads were a complete surprise. It was nothing more than random, unanticipated good fortune. Next time we might not be so lucky. An officer with more experience and better judgement should be given command."

"An officer such as yourself?"

Wexler paused and carefully considered his reply. He was, of course, fully qualified to command Task Force 2.1 and would do a much better job than Tucker, but he immediately recognized how it would appear if he said as much. Admiral Chu might interpret his concerns as a mere grab for power and dismiss them out of hand. More was at stake here than his career.

"I don't deny I have the necessary experience and temperment for the job," Wexler stated, his voice dripping with sincerity, "but _all_ of the other captains have more experience than Tucker. You've placed the most junior captain in command of the whole task force!"

"Hmmm…" Chu muttered as he pondered Wexler's remarks.

Wexler took heart from Chu's thoughtful expression. _Once he realizes a more senior officer is needed_, Wexler thought, _it's a very short step to recognizing that I'm the best-qualified replacement_.

"I think you're right," Chu announced, after a long moment. "Tucker doesn't have the rank to command a fourteen-ship task force."

Wexler clamped down on his sudden eagerness and leaned forward to better hear the Admiral's solution.

Chu looked over at his Chief of Staff. "Harold, I want Commander Tucker promoted to the rank of Captain, effective immediately. I want the orders ready for my signature and on my desk today."

"Aye, Admiral," Walker replied. "You'll have them before lunch."

_What!_ Wexler sat in stunned disbelief. "Admiral, you can't do that!" he exclaimed.

Chu turned his attention back to Wexler, eyes narrowed. "I can't?"

Wexler immediately regretted his outburst. Not because he was wrong — he was not! — but because publicly questioning the judgement of a flag officer was _never_ a wise career move. He stood to leave, his face a frozen mask. "I'm very sorry Admiral. Of course you can do it; I'm just not sure it's for the best. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll return to my ship…"

"Commander Wexler."

"Yes, Admiral?"

"We're not going to defeat the Romulans without taking some risks. I need leaders who aren't overly cautious, who will _act_ when an opportunity presents itself. Tucker will. I don't know about you."

Wexler gritted his teeth. "Very well, Admiral." There was really nothing else he could say.

**CONTINUED IN CHAPTER ****NINE**


	9. Chapter 9

**Convicted**

**Author:** Transwarp

**Rating:** PG-13 (some strong language)

**Genre:** Action/Drama

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

**Summary:** The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol faces charges in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of _Chosin_. Fourth in a series (order of stories: **'Commissioning'**, **'Liaison'**, **'Command'**, then **'Convicted'**).

**NINE**

**Imperial Courthouse, Laibok, Andoria, 7 April 2159**

"Damn, Sarge, I'm bored outta my skull."

Sergeant Bonnie Doyle shot an amused glance at the Private sitting—fidgeting, really—in the seat next to her. "Just relax and enjoy it, Sandoval. No one's shooting at us or trying to blow us up. I'll take that."

"No one's doing ANYTHING to us," Private Sandoval moaned. "We've been sitting in this little room with our thumbs up our butts for hours. It's enough to make me want to go outside, and it's twelve below out there! I shoulda listened to my brother."

"Dare I ask what he said?"

"He said not to join the MACOs. He said the real action was with Starfleet. Now he's at Rho Virginis fightin' rommies while I'm freezing my ass off on Andoria."

Bonnie shook her head. "You're ass is safe and warm in a snug little room while you pull embassy duty on Andoria—a highly coveted assignment, in case you've forgotten. Try to show a little gratitude."

"To hell with that, I want some action!"

"Action is overrated," Bonnie stated.

Sandoval took note of her flat tone and shot her a searching look. "You've seen some! Where? When?" Left unspoken was his real question: _and how can I get some?_

Before she could reply, a third voice inserted itself into the conversation. "You should've listened to your brother."

The interloper was the young Starfleet officer sitting next to them. His uniform bore Lieutenant J.G. insignia and the dark green piping of the JAG Corps. "All the fighting has been ship-to-ship," he explained, "not much need for MACOs. I was a JAG officer on Fifth Fleet's flagship and we didn't even have a MACO detachment."

"See, that's what I mean," Private Sandoval declared, a mournful expression on his face. "I'll bet the Lieutenant here has more combat experience than you, Sarge, and _he's_ just a JAG officer. Uh, no offense, Sir," he added to the Lieutenant.

Bonnie shrugged. "Probably." She settled back in her chair, not intending to pursue the matter any further.

But Sandoval had other ideas. "So L-T," he asked, "how long were you with Fifth Fleet?"

"A year. May '57 to '58. I was at 61 Virginis and both of the Beta Hydri campaigns."

"And you, Sarge..?" Sandoval turned an expectant look toward Bonnie, "When were you with Starfleet?"

"I wasn't."

"Huh? But you said you'd seen action!"

"No, I didn't actually," Bonnie replied. "That was just you jumping to conclusions."

Sandoval's hopeful expression turned glum. "No action, then. Damn, I shoulda known."

"There you go, jumping to conclusions again."

Sandoval narrowed his eyes. "So... have you or haven't you?"

"I have," she answered, after a moment's hesitation.

Sandoval opened his mouth to demand details, but the JAG Lieutenant beat him to it. "Wait, you just said you weren't with Starfleet," he stated in a tone that was _almost_ accusatory. "Where'd you see combat, then?"

Their skeptical looks told Bonnie she would get no peace until she explained. "The Borderlands. Multiple raids on Celes II, Chi Leonis IV, and Beta Rigel II. Boarded some ships in the Gamma Leporis sector. Oh, and we were boarded once off of Tau Hydrae."

The Lieutenant frowned. "Rommies don't board ships, they destroy them. And I'm not aware of any Romulan activity in the Borderlands. I was on Admiral Sprague's staff, so I would know if _that_ was going on."

"Not Romulans; Orions." Bonnie corrected. "After the war broke out, all the Coalition warships in the Borderlands were sent to fight rommies. The Orion Syndicate took advantage of the power vacuum to become more active. _Much_ more active. Someone had to let them know they couldn't enslave our citizens with impunity and that someone was us."

"MACOs?"

"Mostly MACOs. We also had some Imperial Guard ground forces and a few Vulcan V'Shar tactical squads. Oh, and a special task force from the Ministry of Justice."

The Lieutenant pondered Bonnie's answer. "How did... how did these units deploy without Starfleet assistance?" he asked.

"We used civilian ships," Bonnie replied. "Merchant Reserve or specially chartered vessels. Initially, we just put MACOs on ships traveling the most active routes and waited for the Orions to show up. As we developed better intel, we learned where the slave markets and holding pens were located and started targeting them with raids and rescue operations."

Private Sandoval's eyes had grown wide with enthusiasm. "Yes, that's it! That's what _I'm_ talking about, Sarge! Who do I have to kill to get a transfer to the Borderlands? And why did you ever let them send you _here_?"

It was a long moment before Bonnie spoke. "While we were developing better intel on the Orions, they were doing the same to us," she said. "Somehow they learned who I was, and they targeted my family. They had my parents killed back on Earth, and almost killed my younger brother. I went home for the funeral, but I couldn't rejoin my old unit. Not without putting everyone I knew at risk."

"Oh!" Sandoval was shocked by her revelation. "I'm sorry, Sarge."

"Thank you."

She endured their sympathetic expressions for as long as she could, which wasn't very long, then she changed the subject. "Don't worry; Sandoval. We'll still be fighting the Orion Syndicate long after we're finished with the Romulans. Just stick around and you'll get all the action you can handle."

Sandoval's expression hardened. "And when I do, I'll make DAMN sure they pay for what they did to your parents."

"See that you do, Private," Bonnie murmured, "see that you do." She settled back in her chair and closed her eyes, signaling that—for her, anyway—the conversation was over.

It was not to be. "Sarge? I'm still bored. How much longer are we gonna have to sit here?"

"Sandoval, do I look like I'm in charge?" she asked. Her eyes remained closed.

"Uh, no Sarge."

"That's because I'm not. You'll know what we're doing here exactly two seconds after I do, and not a moment sooner."

"I can probably help with that," the JAG officer said, injecting himself into their conversation a second time.

Bonnie sat upright when she heard that. She _had_ been wondering why they were included in the large entourage that left the United Earth Embassy that morning. In addition to Private Sandoval and herself, the group contained the Deputy Chief of Mission, the entire Starfleet liaison section, and almost all of the Embassy's legal staff. They had boarded multiple shuttle pods and flown to the Imperial Courthouse in Laibok. On arrival, all the junior members had been shunted aside (without explanation) to the small room they now occupied. She suspected—no, she _knew_—that this had something to do with Commander T'Pol's pending trial, but she could not imagine the role she was intended to play.

"No shit?" Sandoval asked, "You know what me an' Sergeant Doyle are doing out here?"

"I do. In fact, I'm kind of surprised you don't."

"Shouldn't be," Bonnie said. "If I've learned anything over the course of my career, it's that MACOs are the last to be told anything."

"And here I thought it was Starfleet that was always the last to know," the Lieutenant said, chuckling. "So, have either of you heard of Ushaan?"

They shook their heads.

"Ushaan is some kind of Andorian honor code. I understand it's old—_very_ old—and it permeates every aspect of Andorian society, including their legal system. Anyway, under Ushaan, disputes like this are sometimes settled by duels, and—"

Sandoval interrupted him. "Duels?! Does that mean I get to fight someone?" He could barely restrain his enthusiasm at the thought.

"Sandoval, shut up and let the L-T talk."

"Sorry Private, no duels for you," the Lieutenant replied, grinning. "You and Sergeant Doyle are going to be shen kareth for Commander T'Pol. That's Andorian for 'blade minder.' It's someone who stands with the dueler through the whole proceeding; similar to a 'second' in old Earth duels. Shen kareth help with arrangements before the fight, keep things fair during the fight, and arrange for medical treatment or funeral rites as needed afterwards."

"So Commander T'Pol is fighting someone..?"

"No, no one's fighting anyone. No fighting, it's just a formality. Tradition holds that each dueler will bring two shen kareth who are chosen from the biggest, meanest members of their respective clans. An intimidation tactic, I think. Andorians respect martial prowess above all things, so we picked two MACOs—the two of you—to stand with Commander T'Pol. Given the history between Vulcan and Andoria, we think Human soldiers are the best choice for this job. Not to mention we're the closest thing she has to a clan on this planet."

_The closest thing she has to a clan..._ In that moment Bonnie realized just how utterly alone and vulnerable Commander T'Pol was, a Vulcan in the hands of her people's traditional enemy. The thought filled her with sadness, and she resolved then and there to be the best damn shen kareth she could possibly be. Whatever that hell that meant.

"So what exactly do we have to do?" she asked.

"It's simplicity itself," the Lieutenant explained, "just stand around and look intimidating. Should be a snap for any MACO. Don't they teach you to be intimidating in basic training?"

Bonnie locked eyes with the Lieutenant. "No sir, they teach us to be _dangerous_. Intimidation follows as a natural consequence."

"Er, yes, I see what you mean," the Lieutenant said, blinking.

Sandoval grinned, enjoying the Lieutenant's discomfort. He well knew the impact of Sergeant Doyle's steely-eyed stare, having been on the receiving end more than once. "No fighting then. Damn."

"I'm afraid not, Private," the Lieutenant said. "The shen kareth are strictly ceremonial these days, or so I'm told. The good news is you'll both be at the trial when it starts. Me; I'll be stuck down here. The legal staff were assigned different areas of Andorian law to study, and I got stuck with sentencing and appeals. If I'm ever needed, it won't be until the whole thing is almost over."

After that, the conversation lapsed and Bonnie settled back to rest. This time she was not disappointed.

#####

**_Chosin_, Rho Virginis, 7 April 2159**

Trip could hear the sounds of voices and raucous laughter while still some distance from _Chosin's_ mess deck. *Sounds like today's meeting of the Board of Dirty Tricks is going to be a lively one,* he sent to T'Pol.

*Are not they all?*

*I mean livelier than usual,* Trip amended.

*_That_ is not possible.*

Trip chuckled, mentally conceding T'Pol's point. He stepped through the mess deck door and an alert crewman notified the others of his arrival, "Attention on deck!" The room went quiet as everyone rose to their feet.

"Afternoon, _Captain_." Chief Verley said. The emphasis he placed on the word 'captain' was not lost on Trip, who was still very much aware of the shiny new captain pips on his shoulder.

They had been pinned on the day before by a grinning Jon Archer at an impromptu ceremony aboard _Enterprise_. "How does it feel to finally outrank T'Pol?" Jon had asked. Trip had returned the grin, "Hell, Jon, it'll take more than an extra pip on my shoulder to outrank T'Pol. Nah, this is just payment for having to put up with all the miscreants and scoundrels on _Chosin_." Jon had replied in kind. "And here I thought all the miscreants and scoundrels in Starfleet were on _Enterprise_..."

Trip took his customary spot at the table closest to the drink dispenser. "Ya'll sit and let's get this show on the road," he said. There was a brief rustle as everyone returned to their seats and gave their attention to Trip. "Have they been briefed on the mission?" he asked Verley.

"Not yet, sir. We were waiting for you."

Petty Officer McCourtney scurried from the galley with a steaming mug of coffee, which he placed in front of Trip. "Thanks," Trip murmured. He paused to take a sip before addressing the room, "The rommies have sixty-eight ships that were damaged at Rho Virg to the point they can only travel at warp two. The rommie fleet stayed with them until three days ago, then took off. They left two squadrons of cruisers behind as an escort, but the main fleet is retreating to Terix at warp four."

He took another sip of coffee. "Admiral Chu is preparing a strike force to attack the damaged ships, but it will be another three days before they're rearmed and provisioned. In the meantime, Task Force 2.1 will depart with orders to follow the retreating rommie fleet. When the strike force deploys, our job will be to engage and delay any elements of the main body that turn back to assist the damaged ships."

The room was silent as everyone digested the plan, and Commander Graham picked up the narrative where Trip had left off. "This _could_ be a walk in the park," he told them, "there's a very good chance the rommies will decide that trying to save their damaged ships won't be worth the cost, and they'll make no attempt to reinforce them. In that case we get to enjoy a nice, uneventful cruise."

"That'll be the day," someone muttered.

"Exactly," Graham agreed. "The rommies may decide to throw everything they have at us, and we'll find ourselves fighting a delaying action against some very stiff odds. Which is our specialty, I suppose."

A voice from the middle of the room called out, "Ya know, this 'overwhelming odds' thing is starting to get a little old. Why don't we give 'uneventful cruise' a try this time out?"

Graham waited for the muffled laughs to subside before answering, "That's a great idea, Delgado. Too bad it's the rommies who get to decide."

Verley spoke next. "We've got a couple of things working in our favor. First, at warp four their main fleet will be five days away from the damaged ships when our strike force launches. That means only the ships that can sustain at least warp five will be able to get back in time to help. This rules out the heavies on their main battle line. Second, none of the ordnance they expended at Rho Virg has been replenished. _Our_ ships, on the other hand, will be carrying full combat loads."

Verley's observation met with everyone's approval, judging by the rowdy outburst that followed. Trip let the cacophony continue unabated for several seconds, then raised a hand. "Okay, that's the mission in a nutshell. The full op plan is posted in each Department's inbox. I encourage you to read it at your leisure. Chief Verley will now call this meeting to order. Chief?"

Chief Verley nodded. "Computer, audio recording on." He waited for the computer's acknowledgement, then continued, "The twenty-first meeting of the Board of Dirty Tricks is now called to order. You all know the drill: Rank does not apply while this board is convened, and no idea is too stupid for consideration."

"Except Wageman's."

"Bite me!"

Verley smiled. "Let the brainstorming begin. Who's first? Leach?"

Crewman Leach dropped the hand she had been waving in the air. "Yeah, so I was at chow last night, and that got me to thinking of a solution to the antimatter shortage. Instead of antimatter in our torpedo warheads, we can use McCourtney's meatloaf. If it does to the rommies what it did to my stomach, the war will be over next week."

This set off a round of hoots and catcalls, which PO3 McCourtney, the ship's cook and object of Leach's jibe, took in stride. "You sure as hell weren't complaining when I brought out the pecan pie," he groused.

A grinning Trip spoke, loud enough to be heard over the hubbub, "Khart-lan says"—the room grew still at the word 'Khart-lan'—"while she has no direct experience with meatloaf, personal observation leads her to believe that deploying McCourtney's meatloaf as a weapon would constitute a serious war crime and a grievous violation of the international laws of war."

The room dissolved into peals of delighted laughter.

*It appears you were correct about today's meeting being especially lively,* T'Pol sent.

*Well, if it wasn't true before, it sure is now that you've got them all wound up with your war crimes joke.*

*Humans require no assistance in becoming 'all wound up'. They are quite capable of managing that on their own.*

*If you say so,* Trip replied, and T'Pol was intrigued by the way he managed the equivalent of a derisive snort across their bond.

The laughter in the room provoked by T'Pol's comment ran its course, and was replaced by a general clamor for an update of her status. The existence and nature of the bond had become common knowledge among the crew, and now that they knew she was 'present' (in the mental sense), they demanded to know how she was doing.

*They miss you, T'Pol. Almost as much as I do.*

*I miss them, too,* she replied, *almost as much as I miss you.*

The truth of T'Pol's quiet proclamation could not be hidden from Trip, nor was he surprised by it. He knew—as only a bond mate _could_ know—the true depth of her feelings. He also knew how onerous and fraught with danger (real _physical_ danger) the path leading to her current facility with emotion had been. Yet she had done it; she'd managed to fuse two drastically different cultures with radically divergent philosophies into a single, coherent world-view, and she'd done it without losing her sense of self or violating her Vulcan heritage. She never seemed especially proud of her accomplishment—_that_ would be illogical—but she didn't need to be. Trip was proud enough for the both of them. After all, he knew better than anyone how dark and menacing, how truly terrifying the emotional demons she wrestled had been, and what it had taken for her to ultimately defeat them.

Trip lifted a hand to quiet the room. "The trial begins today and Khart-lan is at the courthouse, waiting to be taken to the courtroom. Her defense team has some highly experienced legal minds from Andoria, Vulcan and Earth, and they're estimating the trial will last about two weeks. They are also predicting she'll be found **not** guilty. She could be back here on _Chosin_ in a couple of months!"

He waited for the cheering to subside before trying to get them back on task, "In the meantime, we still have a job to do, and it looks like we'll have to do it without meatloaf bombs. So, any other bright ideas? Lieutenant Koussa?"

Lieutenant Brant Koussa had taken over Ops Department when LCDR Graham became first officer. Judging by the expression on his face, he was about to make a serious proposal. "Yessir. I was the Sensor DivO, so I'm familiar with all the ways a torpedo detonation can affect sensors. Can't say I know what McCourtney's meatloaf might do, but it probably wouldn't be pretty."

McCourtney groaned at the renewed assault on his culinary skills.

Koussa continued, "A near miss from a torpedo will shut down sensors for several seconds. An explosion farther away won't shut the sensors down, but it _will_ obscure readings from anything in the vicinity of the explosion."

"I'm familiar with the affect," Trip said.

"Does the same thing to my comms," Lieutenant Walder interjected. Indignantly, as if Koussa might have been somehow personally responsible.

"Yeah," Koussa agreed. "Anyway, it seems to me that we could use this to degrade the effectiveness of rommie defensive fire."

"Go on..."

"Usually, we launch our torpedoed in large salvos, trying to overwhelm the target. Send enough torpedoes and some are bound to get through rommie's point defenses. Instead of launching them all at once, I'm thinking we could launch them in sequence. Then we detonate the first torpedo some distance from the target, the second one a little closer, and so on. It's a rolling barrage of torpedoes all the way to the target, where each detonation obscures the torpedoes behind it. Rommie's fire control is blinded and they can't get a lock on the inbound torpedoes. Whatcha, think, sir?"

"Hmmm..." Trip's first thought was _Hell Yeah,_ but he had learned to carefully consider such proposals before passing judgment. "How many torpedoes would it take?"

"Beats me," Koussa admitted. "I'll leave it as an exercise for Weapons Division to calculate the appropriate quantity and spacing."

"Hodges?" Trip asked, turning to _Chosin's_ senior torpedo tech.

"I'd have to run some simulations, sir, but I'm thinking ten torpedoes launched at two second intervals might do the trick. That would give us a sensor-masking effect for eighteen seconds of the last torpedo's trajectory, and that last eighteen seconds is when rommie defensive fire is most effective."

Commander Graham was less restrained: "This is brilliant! Inspired! Brant, you're a genius!"

Trip grinned at Graham's enthusiasm. He had to admit it _was_ a pretty damn good idea; a ten-torpedo cascade could very well be as effective as a salvo of twenty or thirty torpedoes. "Ensign Bowman, you and Hodges run some simulations and—"

*Trip...*

"bring me the results and a recommended plan to implement—"

*Trip!*

*What, darlin'?*

*We cannot do this.*

*Huh? Of course we can. It's a simple matter of reprogramming the warheads and timing the launches.*

*Let me rephrase that: we _should_ not do this.*

*Why not, T'Pol?*

*If we can do it, so can the Romulans. We have no countermeasures against it. It is bad enough that the Romulans will soon have torpedo packs of their own, now that they have seen our six-packs. For them to also develop rolling torpedo barrages of this type would be catastrophic.*

Trip knew at once she was right. _Damn!_

His focus returned to the room where he found all eyes were on him, wondering at his suddenly grim visage. After he explained T'Pol's objection to the concept, they looked equally grim.

#####

**Imperial Courthouse, Laibok, Andoria, 7 April 2159**

"Hey, Sarge. Sergeant Doyle!"

Bonnie's eyes snapped open to see an excited Private Sandoval reaching for her shoulder. "I'm awake," she growled.

His hands froze inches from her shoulder, then beat a hasty retreat. "Uh, they're getting ready to bring Commander T'Pol to the courtroom. We have to go."

She glanced over at the door and saw a man in formal civilian attire looking their way. He was clearly waiting for them.

"Damn," the JAG Lieutenant muttered, "That's Dan McFadden."

"Who?" Bonnie asked. She gave the man by the door a closer look.

"Daniel McFadden. He's the Embassy Legal Attache. My boss's boss. Sending him to get you is like... like sending the Ambassador to get coffee."

Bonnie suppressed a yawn. "Well, I hope the Ambassador gets here quick. I could use some coffee." She stood, stretched, and headed for the door. "Let's go, Sandoval."

The Legal Attache led them from the room and they walked briskly down the hall. "They're bringing T'Pol to a holding area next to the courtroom," he explained. "You need to prep the room before she arrives. Thon will be there, in case you forgot anything from his briefing."

Bonnie glanced at Sandoval, whose blank expression revealed he was just as mystified as her. "Who's Thon?" she asked.

McFadden broke stride at her question, but quickly recovered, "You haven't been briefed?"

"No sir."

He looked annoyed. "Thon will have to give you a crash course. We should have time; everyone says it's pretty easy..."

_Nothing's ever easy_, Bonnie thought, but she kept it to herself. "Yes sir," she said instead.

"Here we are." McFadden stood to one side and they preceded him into an unfurnished room. Unfurnished, but not unoccupied. The buzz of conversation from several huddled groups filled the air. A quick glance revealed an assortment of Humans and Andorians, even a couple of Vulcans, but Commander T'Pol was not among them.

"They'll bring Commander T'Pol along shortly," McFadden said, before she could ask. "First, you need to get with Thon for a crash course in Ushaan."

Bonnie followed his eyes and saw an Andorian engaged in an animated discussion with a pair of Humans. On closer inspection, she decided 'discussion' was probably the wrong term since it appeared Thon was doing all the talking. "He looks busy," she said.

McFadden snorted, which Bonnie interpreted as disagreement. "Thon!" he called, "The shen kareth are here."

Thon's antenna snapped upright and his head swiveled in their direction. He left the two humans he was addressing—in mid-sentence, judging by their bewildered looks—and approached Bonnie and Private Sandoval. He looked them up and down, but his expression left Bonnie feeling he was not favorably impressed.

"He is acceptable," Thon stated, pointing at Sandoval, "but she is too small." His finger was now pointed at Bonnie's face.

McFadden frowned. "She's a soldier, uh, a warrior. A combat veteran. That's what you asked for."

"I also said they needed to be large and impressive. I can assure you that Chancellor Shalin's shen kareth will be MUCH more imposing."

"So what do you propose we do? There's no time to get anyone else."

"Since we have no choice I suppose we'll have to make do with what we have," Thon answered. "It probably won't affect the outcome of the trial either way..." His tone reflected doubt in his own words.

"Good," McFadden said. "I leave them in your capable hands, then." He was walking away even as he spoke.

Thon turned back to the two MACOs. "There is little time, so we must—"

Bonnie's hand shot up, a rigid index finger coming within millimeters of Thon's nose. "If you ever point that finger at me again, I will break it off and shove it down your throat. Am I perfectly clear?"

Thon took a step back, startled by her vehemence, then another step back as she advanced on him.

"And since everyone says there isn't going to be any fighting, perhaps you can explain why we need to be so big and _scary_." She snarled the last word at him, and Thon took a third step back. He might have retreated further, but Bonnie had backed him against the wall.

"Well?" She folded her arms and glared at him.

It is... tradition," Thon squeaked. "Under the code of Ushaan, shen kareth must stand ready to protect the shan keth... that is T'Pol... from acts of treachery or lawless attacks..."

"You mean we watch her back."

"Er, yes. When small or weak shen kareth are provided, the clan is sending the message that they don't care, that their shan keth is being disowned."

Bonnie considered Thon's words. "So you're saying Andorians will think T'Pol is guilty because I'm not seven feet tall and covered with hair?"

"I, ah, I believe I have changed my mind... your size will not be a problem."

"Good," Bonnie said. "In that case, please tell us whatever it is we need to know." She gave Thon her sweetest smile, which only served to unnerve him further.

#####

"She's on her way." The notification came from a Human, whose head appeared briefly through the doorway before vanishing back into the hall.

Thon paused his rapid-fire instructions to the two MACOs. "There is more to learn, but we're out of time," he said. "I've told you most of what you need, since there will not be a challenge. Now, show me what you've learned. Your shan keth is coming; what will you do?"

Sandoval looked at Bonnie, deferring to her rank, and Bonnie glanced around the room. _It's really pretty simple_, she thought. _We're pretend bodyguards in a ceremony where actual bodyguards are no longer required. All we have to do is act like there's a real threat_. "Sandoval, go check and secure the hall. When Commander T'Pol arrives, follow her into the room. I'll be over there by the door." She looked at Thon. "I don't suppose we can get a couple of phase pistols?" she asked.

"No, that won't be necessary," he replied, but his smile showed approval of her zeal.

Sandoval left the room and Bonnie took a position by the door. Not long after, Commander T'Pol entered flanked by two uniformed guards. She wore a flimsy green poncho and her wrists were shackled behind her. Private Sandoval came next, followed by a cavalcade of Humans, Andorians, and Vulcans from her legal team. Judging by the annoyed looks some of them were giving Sandoval, he had been less than gentle when inserting himself behind T'Pol.

Commander T'Pol came to a stop in the center of room while everyone else milled about. After several moments of this Bonnie began to think no one was in charge; an intolerable condition from her MACO perspective. Deputy Chief of Mission Joseph Pickett was the senior person in the room, and she was considering whether to say something to him when Dan McFadden began barking out orders.

Relieved that there was a functioning chain of command, she looked back at Commander T'Pol. The Commander had become the epicenter of a flurry of activity. The Andorian guards were removing the manacles from her wrists, an Andorian advocate was speaking something in her ear—something urgent, judging by his intense expression—and a Human Starfleet officer, oblivious to the fact that her attention was elsewhere and her wrists still restrained, was thrusting a bag at her while issuing a stream of instructions to someone on the other side of the room.

Bonnie moved in. "I'll take that, sir," she said, retrieving the bag from the distracted officer.

"Oh, thanks." He spared her a puzzled glance, uncertain of her place in the hierarchy but relieved that he could now concentrate on his other duties. "It's her uniform for the trial," he explained before hastening away.

She looked inside the bag, verifying that it contained a set of Starfleet dress blues, undergarments, and a pair of shoes. When she looked back up, T'Pol was watching her. "Your uniform, Commander," Bonnie said, offering her the bag.

"Thank you, Sergeant." T'Pol took it from her and began glancing around the room.

_Oh shit, there's no place where she can change_, Bonnie realized. "Just a moment, ma'am."

She turned to one of the Andorian guards. "Commander T'Pol needs a room with some privacy."

"She's not to leave this room. Not until the trial starts," the guard replied. Bonnie was no expert on Andorian facial expressions, but she was pretty sure the look on his face was one of disdain.

"She needs to change into her uniform," Bonnie explained. Ever so respectfully.

"Then let her," the guard said. And yes, he _was_ leering at her.

Much as she would have enjoyed physically wiping that leer from his face, Bonnie decided a more prudent course of action would be escalating the issue. She performed a quick scan of the room. Other than Private Sandoval and the two Andorian guards, Deputy Chief of Mission Pickett seemed to be the only other person not currently occupied with a pressing task. She approached him and explained the situation in succinct terms.

Pickett's brows furrowed. "I don't know of any places where she could change," he admitted.

Bonnie had anticipated that response and was ready with a solution. "No problem, sir. I can clear this room and she can change in here. With your permission, of course."

He nodded. "Yes, that will work."

That was all she needed to hear. "YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE."

A startled silence fell over the room and every eye turned toward Bonnie. "Everyone needs to move out into the hall. Now, please."

They stared at her.

"I said MOVE!"

They moved.

As a line formed at the door, Bonnie approached the two Andorian guards on either side of Commander T'Pol. "You, too," she told them. "Get out."

"We cannot leave the prisoner unattended," said the first guard, the one who had leered.

"I'll attend to her. Now go," Bonnie growled.

"We have our orders," the second guard insisted.

_There's no time for this_. "Sandoval."

"Yeah, Sarge?" Sandoval approached, standing a head taller than either of the guards. The grin on his face was not exactly friendly.

"Would you like to help these two leave the room?"

Sandoval cracked his knuckles. "I would _love_ to!"

The two guards regarded Sandoval with uneasy looks—even Bonnie had to admit he made for an imposing figure—but they showed no signs of backing down. _Damn. A fight before the trial is the last thing I want_.

Her eyes flicked from Sandoval to the the first guard and back; Sandoval responded with a barely perceptible nod. _Message received,_ Bonnie thought, _I'll take out the first guard, he'll take the second_.

Before Bonnie could act, T'Pol spoke, addressing the two guards, "Your orders were to get me to the courtroom on time for my trial," she said. "By delaying my preparations you are violating your orders. There is only one way in or out of this room so you should not fear I will escape."

The guards considered her words, then considered Sandoval looming over them and radiating menace. "We will wait outside," the second guard announced.

Bonnie gave Sandoval a quick head motion: _Follow them out_. He nodded and fell in behind them.

"That was nicely done, Commander," she said, once Sandoval and the guards had left.

"They simply needed a reason to do what their pride would not allow."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm Sergeant Doyle, by the way. Bonnie Doyle. We haven't been introduced, but Private Sandoval and I were assigned to be your shen... uh shen...'

"Shen kareth."

"Yes. Shen kareth. I apologize, but we just learned of this assignment a couple of hours ago. We received a quick briefing on the basics, but we're hardly experts."

"You will do fine."

"I'll be out in the hall," Bonnie said, "just give a knock when you're done."

T'Pol nodded and began untying the belt around her waist while holding the bag in the crook of her arm. It looked extremely awkward, and it was then Bonnie realized there was nowhere in the room to set anything down. No tables, chairs, or hooks on the wall; just the floor, which would have benefitted from a good scrubbing. "Let me help you with that, ma'am," she said, taking the bag from T'Pol.

Freed from her burden, T'Pol removed the belt and had her poncho off in short order. Bonnie was surprised to find T'Pol without undergarments, though on reflection she shouldn't have been. She took the poncho from T'Pol and turned away, allowing her a modicum of privacy.

"Where are you from, Sergeant Doyle?"

"Earth. I was born and raised in Busselton, Australia." She could hear Commander T'Pol rustling through the bag, then a thud that sounded like a pair of shoes being tossed to the floor.

"What led you to become a MACO?"

_Is she engaging me in small talk?_ Bonnie wondered. _I thought Vulcans didn't do that_. "I enlisted right after the Xindi attack in '53. I tried to join Starfleet first, but there was a waiting list and I'm not the waiting type. Turned out for the best, though. The MACOs are a good place for impatient hotheads like me."

"We've only just met, but you appear to be more level-headed than hot-headed."

Bonnie laughed. "Yes ma'am, I guess I am now. Let's just say I was uh, _encouraged_ to change after I got my Sergeant stripes."

"Responsibility for others can be an effective impetus for personal growth," T'Pol said, her tone more sober than before.

Bonnie considered her statement. "I've got no room to complain," she said, "not compared to _you_. At least the MACOs in my section are the same species as me. You commanded a ship full of Humans. That must have been hard for a Vulcan."

There was a brief silence broken only by the sound of a tunic being zipped. "It was... challenging. Yet also greatly stimulating." There was another pause, then, "I am ready."

Bonnie turned. Commander T'Pol was indeed ready, looking very impressive in her dress blue uniform. Bonnie read the ribbons on her chest and found herself even more impressed. They served to remind her that _Chosin_, under T'Pol's command, had inflicted more damage on the rommies than any other Coalition warship, Human or otherwise. _Too bad most of the Andorians in the courtroom won't know their meaning_.

Bonnie walked to the door, but didn't open it right away. From the muffled noises filtering through the door, a commotion of some sort was brewing outside.

She looked back at T'Pol, who stood in a relaxed pose with her hands clasped behind her back. "Sounds like they're getting a little rambunctious out there," Bonnie noted. "Should I let them back in?"

T'Pol nodded. "I suppose we must. They will only grow more agitated over time." Bonnie smiled at that, but opened the door.

Private Sandoval was the first one through, and he gave Bonnie a rapid update on the source of the commotion. "A bunch of Andorians just showed up and I think they want to take over the Commander's defense or be involved in it or something like that. Whatever it is, it's got them all bickering like school kids."

Bonnie could see that for herself. There were more people streaming back into the room than had originally left, and the newcomers—all Andorians—were engaged in vigorous debate with the others. And they were ALL headed for Commander T'Pol.

"Keep them away from her," she snapped, giving Sandoval a tiny shove to start him moving. Then she filled her lungs and bellowed, "QUIET!"

In the silence that followed, she stepped to Sandoval's side. He stood like a granite pillar between T'Pol and the others, glaring ominously.

"Sir, who are these people?" Bonnie asked, looking directly at Deputy Chief of Mission Pickett.

"They claim to be—"

"We are her clan," said one of the Andorians, stepping forward. He stopped when Sandoval took a half-step in his direction, but continued talking. "I am Imperial Guard Commander Shran of Clan Gharal. Just this morning Commander T'Pol was confirmed a daughter of Clan Gharal by consent of the Table of Elders and decree of the Eldest. We claim blood-right to defend her honor and protect her life."

Bonnie, at a complete loss for words, could only stare at him.

T'Pol came to her rescue, stepping forward and placing a hand on her shoulder. "There is no need for alarm, Sergeant," she said, "Commander Shran is a friend."

"And a brother, now," he added, grinning. "_And_ I'm one of your shen kareth."

Bonnie started to say something, but stopped herself. _This is way above my pay grade_, she realized. She stepped aside and motioned for Sandoval to join her. _I'm gonna let the big guns sort this one out_.

#####

**Imperial Chancellery, Laibok, Andoria, 7 April 2159**

"This is... this is incredible!" Chancellor Shalin read through the message on his desk, and certain he must have overlooked something, read through it again. Its content did not change between readings. "This is simply incredible. Does Clan Gharal not understand how they will be perceived by other clans? They will be despised and ridiculed. They have adopted a Vulcan. A Vulcan _criminal_, who is being tried for murder in Imperial Court... this can only lead to their downfall and destruction."

Dellev was reading the same message, with a similar degree of astonishment. Unlike Shalin, he was not so certain of its impact. "I think you may be overestimating the degree of outrage this will generate," Dellev said. "She is only a criminal if she is convicted."

"Which you have assured me will happen."

"And which I believe," Dellev confirmed. "But apparently Clan Gharal believes otherwise." _They would not do something as drastic as adopting the Vulcan T'Pol without some hope of gain or profit_, he mused. _What do they hope to gain?_

"Once she is convicted, Clan Gharal's shame and dishonor will be boundless," Shalin gloated. "No other Clan will have anything to do with them for fear of sharing their taint."

Dellev stared at the message while he pondered its significance. Unlike Shalin, he was convinced that Clan Gharal had ulterior motives for their action. He could not rest until he knew what they were. "What am I overlooking?" he murmured. Shalin did not hear, already considering who he might endorse for the seats in Parliament currently held by Clan Gharal.

_Has he always been this impetuous and short-sighted,_ Dellev wondered, _or am I growing impatient in my old age?_ He was about to caution Shalin that his plans might be premature, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the reason why Clan Gharal had adopted T'Pol came to him.

"Shalin..."

That got the Chancellor's attention. He stopped and looked at his old advisor.

"I know why they adopted her," Dellev said. "It was for Ushaan."

"Ushaan? Don't be ridiculous. She's a foreigner. A Vulcan. Ushaan does not apply."

"She is of Clan Gharal. Ushaan is her right. Her blood-right. She will issue the challenge... to _you_."

If Shalin had been standing, his knees might have buckled. As it was, the blood rushed from his face and left him deathly pale. "She... she cannot." he stammered. "This cannot be allowed... this adoption must be overturned. No Vulcan can be Clan!"

"By what authority will you overturn it?" Dellev asked. "The Charter of Clans is silent on the matter of bloodlines. It's an internal matter that each Clan must decide on its own."

"Her blood is green. Green! It's absurd to permit this!"

"I ask again: By what authority will you prevent it?" To emphasize his point, Dellev quoted a well-known catch-phrase, "The Charter ends at the Clan's door."

"There must be another way, some other statute or law we can invoke..."

Dellev was growing uneasy at the direction the conversation was taking. "We cannot stop this," he replied. "She has the right of Ushaan and she _will_ challenge you."

"I... I will find a champion."

"You will let someone else fight in your place? What of your honor? What of your Clan's honor? What champion would agree to be a part of this?"

"What of your nephew Jannek? He served in the Imperial Guard..."

Dellev's expression hardened. "Jannek fights his own battles. Find your champion from the ranks of your own clan. Even better, fight her yourself."

"Dellev, I haven't touched a weapon since childhood. You know this. My battles were fought on the floor of Parliament. _She_ is a warrior, a... a remorseless murderer. She would kill me in a fight!"

"If T'Pol brings the challenge, you must fight. If you choose a champion, it may save your life but you will lose everything else. _Everything_."

Shalin's antennae twitched at the sharp edge in Dellev's voice. "There must be _something_ we can do!"

Dellev hesitated. Part of him was disgusted by Shalin's reaction, but part of him remembered the years spent advising and encouraging Shalin. The decades spent assisting him in his climb to power. Dellev remembered the political victories and the electoral defeats. He remembered the long days and sleepless nights when Parliament was in session; the strategy sessions; the lobbying, bargaining and arm-twisting. It had been hard, but it had also been exhilarating. _Shalin is no saint_, Dellev reflected, _but he has accomplished much that is good. WE have accomplished much that is good_.

"Perhaps there is something..." Dellev said.

"Yes, yes! Tell me!"

"First, I must know what you will do if challenged."

Shalin licked his lips and stared down at his hands. He was silent for a long moment before murmuring, "I will fight."

It was exactly what Dellev had hoped to hear. "Good. Good. You make me proud, Chancellor."

Shalin could not contain a nervous laugh. "Yes. You will be proud and I will be dead. Dellev, she is a former agent of the Vulcan Security Directorate, the V'Shar. I cannot hope to defeat her."

"Then we must see that she does not challenge you."

"How?" Shalin asked, but there was a new note of hope in his voice.

"We threaten to expose her Trellium-D addiction if she invokes Ushaan."

Shalin considered his proposal and could find no flaw. "No one can know of this, Dellev. You must talk to her yourself, and quickly. She goes to court this afternoon for the reading of charges. That's when she will claim her blood-right."

Dellev stood. "I'll go now. Have a directive sent to the courthouse granting me full access, and I'll take care of the rest."

"Thank you, old friend."

"Thank me when this is behind us," Dellev replied. He left the room, striding as purposefully as his aging legs would permit.

#####

**Imperial Courthouse, Laibok, Andoria, 7 April 2159**

Dellev approached the courtroom doors and tried to keep the dismay he felt from showing on his face. _I'm too late!_

The doors were shut and a guard posted, indicating that the legal proceedings were already underway. The trial had not yet started when he left the Chancellery, so it couldn't have been going on for very long. The first item on the court's agenda would be the seating of the judges, and only after that could the right of Ushaan be invoked. _There still might be time_, he thought.

He hurried to the guard, showed him his authorization from Chancellor Shalin, and slipped through the door into the courtroom. It was large and richly appointed, with polished stone floors and a high, vaulted ceiling; altogether a fitting place wherer Andorian justice could be dispensed. Over the course of his long career Dellev had been in many such courtrooms, and had always taken a moment to drink in their timeless majesty and reflect on the principles and traditions they represented.

Today he did not; his eyes going straight to the large triangular table at the head of the room. The vertex of the triangle pointed toward the public gallery where Dellev now stood. The left side of the triangular table had four seats for the defense and the right had four seats for the prosecution, all of which were occupied. But it was the base of the triangle that concerned Dellev. That was where the three trial judges who would hear the case and rule on its merits were seated. One judge was appointed by the defense, one by the prosecution, and one by the government. And all three seats were occupied. _Not good..._

He located a vacant seat in the gallery and slid into it. "They have already selected the judges?" he whispered to the spectator in the seat next to his.

"Yes. None were disputed, so the seating went quickly."

"What of the Ushaan-kareth?

"The Vulcan waived her blood-right."

Dellev sank back in his seat, his mind spinning with the ramifications of what he had just heard. It was good news. No, it was _very_ good news. Too-good-to-be-true news. _Am I overlooking something? Why would Clan Gharal adopt her, if not to invoke Ushaan?_

He left his seat and exited the courtroom through the same door he had entered, heading directly for the office of the court's Chief Administrator. He knew what he had to do. _I must talk to her at the next recess. Alone._

#####

T'Pol was led to a room adjacent to the one where her legal team had waited before the trial. In fact, it was an exact duplicate of that room, both in size and lack of furnishings; one of several such staging areas where prosecutors and defendants made last-minute preparations before going to the courtroom.

The door sighed open and she entered, flanked by two guards and followed by her two shen kareth, her Human embassy lawyer, and her principle Andorian advocate.

The room's only occupant was an Andorian male, quite elderly judging by his wrinkled skin and gray hair. He introduced himself without preamble. "Commander T'Pol, my name is Dellev. I am Chancellor Shalin's personal advisor, and there is something you and I need to discuss."

"As you wish."

He glanced at the others. "It would be best if everyone else waited outside."

"That might be problematic," T'Pol pointed out. "The guards will want to guard me, my shen kareth will want to protect me, and my legal counsel will want to advise me."

"The guards are no problem. They've been informed that I speak for the Chancellor," Dellev said, and spoke to them: "Wait in the hall." The guards left without hesitation. "Now the rest of you can leave."

"I'm going nowhere. My duty is here with my shan keth." The speaker was Commander Shran, who had replaced Private Sandoval as T'Pol's second shen kareth after a heated discussion that T'Pol had been forced to moderate. She had chosen Shran in place of Private Sandoval, since he was a brother of her new clan and much more familiar with the traditions and protocols of Ushaan.

Shran had also wanted to replace Sergeant Doyle but T'Pol had overridden him, citing the symbolism of both a Human and Andorian acting as shen kareth for a Vulcan. Nor had she forgotten how thoughtful and considerate Sergeant Doyle had been at their initial meeting. Shran and his clan-brother may have been better versed in Ushaan, but ultimately their prime consideration was the good of their clan, while Sergeant Doyle—_Bonnie_—seemed motivated solely by concern for T'Pol's well-being.

"I would prefer they stay." T'Pol told Dellev. "You may speak freely in front of them."

"I advise you to reconsider, Commander. We will be discussing the various uses of a substance known as Trellium-D."

T'Pol froze.

"Commander?" Dellev prompted.

T'Pol suppressed the panic that had threatened to seize her at the mention of Trellium-D. "I would like you to wait outside," she told her escort. She was pleased at how steady her voice sounded.

Shran's antennae flattened against his head. "T'Pol, I'm not leaving you alone with this... this... swamp-crawler."

Dellev chuckled. "I'm so old I can scarcely walk. I'm certainly not a threat to _her_."

"He is correct," T'Pol agreed. "Please, wait in the hall. Dellev and I must speak alone." Her entourage heeded her request and left the room, though reluctantly.

Sergeant Doyle was last to leave. "Ma'am, you sure about this?" she murmured.

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Okay... I'm right outside if you need me."

T'Pol waited until the door was closed and they were both alone, then she addressed Dellev. "What is it you want to tell me?"

"Just like a Vulcan," Dellev remarked, "going straight to the point. Very well, I'll refrain from congratulating you on your adoption into Clan Gharal and get to the heart of the matter. After all, the sooner we're done here, the sooner I can find a place to sit these tired old bones." He looked around the unfurnished room to emphasize his point.

T'Pol said nothing, regarding him with a wary expression.

"We are aware of the effects of Trellium-D on Vulcan physiology and in particular on the Vulcan brain. We are also aware that you were exposed to Trellium-D during an away mission while serving as _Enterprise's_ first officer on her mission to the Delphic Expanse. You suffered a severe psychotic incident as a result of that exposure."

"That is no secret."

Dellev smiled. "No, that is no secret. The _secret_, dear Commander, is that you continued injecting yourself with Trellium-D at regular intervals, to the point you became addicted to the substance. You were unable to stop without medical intervention."

T'Pol's eyes widened as her worst fears were confirmed. *Trip!*

Sensing her urgency, his response was almost instantaneous. *T'Pol? What is it, what's wrong?*

*Shalin knows about... about my Trellium addiction in the Expanse.*

*What? How?!*

*I do not know...*

Dellev continued, unaware of the conversation taking place between T'Pol and her bond-mate, "We know that you were secretly addicted for over three months. We know that you never bothered to inform Starfleet of your condition, not while you were addicted, nor after the fact. Finally, we know that you were under the influence of Trellium-D while commanding _Enterprise_ at the battle of Azati Prime, where fourteen of your crew lost their lives."

At Dellev's words, T'Pol fought down another wave of strong emotion: Despair and anguish to be sure, but mostly? Shame. She exhaled sharply as her focus turned inward to contain the insurgent feelings.

Across the bond Trip was also listening, and his shock and dismay only served to magnify the emotional impact on T'Pol. He was on _Chosin's_ bridge at the time, making preparations for Task Force 2.1 to depart Rho Virginis, but he recovered his equilibrium long enough to mumble "I'll be in my quarters" and hurry from the bridge.

*Trip, he _knows_. He knows everything!*

*Okay, okay. Take a deep breath, T'Pol. I'm here with you.* He slipped into her mind, lending his strength while trying to ignore the sick feeling growing in the pit of his own stomach.

Dellev was so astonished by T'Pol's reaction that he momentarily forgot what he intended to say. He had not been expecting anything so dramatic, certainly not from a Vulcan. As he watched, her hands clenched and she took a deep breath, then another.

"What is it you want?" she asked.

"Ah, yes, what do I want? Once again, Commander, you get right to the point. It's simple really; I want the same thing you want. I want this shameful secret of yours to be buried deep, so deep it is never revealed. I want you to never have to explain to Starfleet why you would take a mind-altering compound before leading your crew into combat. I want you to never have to explain to your new Clan elders why you would bring such disgrace and dishonor on them. In exchange, all I ask is that you not contest the charges you face."

Fury burst inside T'Pol, nearly overcoming her. _Why do I feel such anger?_ _What he asks is no more than what I expected when I surrendered myself to the Andorians._

The answer was she did not. It was clear on inspection that the anger originated from Trip's side of the bond. He seethed with rage and was making no effort to control it.

He raged at Shalin for bringing baseless charges against T'Pol, he raged at Dellev for his under-handed attempt at blackmail, he raged at his powerlessness and inability to help, and he raged at the universe for conspiring to keep him from his wife and soul-mate.

In all the years T'Pol had known Trip, she had never before felt such anger and bitterness from him, and she found herself in the unusual position of trying to help him control _his_ emotions. A task made doubly difficult because Trip had no desire to control them.

*Trip, I cannot help calm you if you will not assist!*

*Yeah? Well maybe I just don't see the point of 'calm' right now. Maybe I'm tired of 'calm'. Maybe I don't give a rat's ass about 'calm', because it didn't helped before and it sure as shit won't help now!*

T'Pol cringed at his angry tirade, but he was not done. *You're still dealing with your emotions, and mine too I guess, and I'm sorry about that—no wait, I'm NOT sorry about that, I have every right to be mad as hell—so maybe _you_ haven't seen where this is all going yet, but I have, goddammit, and I sure as HELL don't like it!*

But T'Pol _had_ seen where it was going; where _she_ was going: to an Andorian prison. And she could see no way around it. She could also sense that some of Trip's rage was inexplicably directed at _her_... and it cut her to the core. Normally, her emotional outbursts would be contained by the mental bulwark she maintained around her mind; around her being. But Trip's fury exploded _within_ her mind. _Inside_ her protective barricades. Against that, she had no defense.

T'Pol hugged herself, clinging to her control with all her strength in the face of Trip's fury. She felt tired, desperately tired. *Trip?*

This time he answered, his incandescent rage marginally less incandescent. *What!*

*I do not... I cannot think... Tell me what I must do and I will do it. Please, K'diwa!* Her need finally registered in Trip's consciousness, and his white-hot rage began to abate.

Dellev watched as T'Pol retreated into herself. Her eyes were shut tight and tiny tremors shook her body. "Commander?" he said. There was no response.

"Commander T'Pol!" he repeated in a louder voice. "You have heard my proposal. What is your answer?"

*Trip, he wants an answer. What will I tell him?*

*Tell him to shove his proposal up his ASS!*

T'Pol cringed again. It was only then that Trip realized the toll his emotional onslaught was taking on her. For her to admit she couldn't even _think_... that had never happened before, and it gave Trip pause. Only then did he realized that much of his anger was directed at T'Pol for something he'd thought he'd long since forgiven her for.

He recalled the time T'Pol had first told him of her Trellium addiction. She had been apprehensive when she approached him, even a little frightened at how he might react when she revealed what she considered her most shameful secret. Trip had done his best to reassure her, to let her know that it didn't change how he felt about her. After all, the Trellium had affected her emotions, _not_ her judgment, and Starfleet's after-action analysis of the combat at Azati Prime had found no issues with T'Pol's decisions or her performance as acting captain. Trip had felt very good—noble, even—when he dispensed his forgiveness to her. _I guess it's easy forgive when you're not expecting any negative consequences down the road_, he thought.

*I'm sorry, darlin'* Trip sent, with overtones of gentleness that had been missing just moments before. *I guess I kind of lost it there. Ask Dellev what your sentence will be if we accept his proposal.*

She opened her eyes and tried to ask the question, but her voice failed her. Trip immediately rushed to her support, filling her with his strength and apologizing again for his earlier thoughtlessness.

"What will my sentence be if the charges are not contested?"

It was a question Dellev had not had an opportunity to consider. He knew that Shalin would demand life in prison, given a choice, but he did not want to make the sentence so harsh that T'Pol might reject it. There was also the statistic that most Vulcans died before ten years in Andorian prisons. Based on what he had just seen of T'Pol's reaction, he doubted she would last a year.

"Ten years," he said, after a moment's thought.

Now it was Trip's turn to cringe, while T'Pol waited. _She's really going to make me decide_, Trip realized. He knew what he wanted to do: he wanted to send Dellev packing with a resounding NO. But if they rejected Dellev's proposal and T'Pol's substance abuse was revealed at the trial, it could change _everything_. To Andorians, honor was paramount, and they would abandon her rather than risk being stained by her perceived dishonor. To Vulcans, logic was everything, and the motives or judgment of anyone capable of such an _illogical_ act would not be trusted. Starfleet would see it as a violation of regulations that she had been covering up for years, and might even feel a court-martial was required. Then there was the personal disgrace and humiliation that would be heaped upon her.

_Even all that would be worth it I knew she'd be acquitted_, Trip thought_, but what if we reject his offer, fight the charges, and lose? Then she suffers disgrace AND goes to prison. Probably for longer than ten years..._

There was really no choice; T'Pol could not fight the charges. At the realization, Trip could feel another round of bitter anger welling up inside him. He could also feel T'Pol's tattered control failing her. She could endure almost anything, but not the anger of her mate. With great effort, he shunted his anger aside. After all, it was hurting his T'Pol, and _that_ he could not permit.

*Tell Dellev... tell him we will not contest the charges.*

**CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TEN**


End file.
